The Works of Edmund Spenser/Colin Clouts Come Home Againe
MISCELLANIES.
COLIN CLOUTS COME HOME AGAINE.
BY ED. SP.
1595.
TO THE RIGHT WORTHY AND NOBLE KNIGHT
SIR WALTER RALEIGH,
CAPTAINE OF HER MAIESTIES GUARD, LORD WARDEIN OF THE STANNERIES, AND LIEUTENANT OF THE COUNTIE OF CORNWALL.
- Sir,
That you may see that I am not alwaies ydle as yee thinke, though not greatly well occupied, nor altogither undutifull, though not precisely officious, I make you present of this simple Pastorall, unworthie of your higher conceipt for the meanesse of the stile, but agreeing with the truth in circumstance and matter. The which I humbly beseech you to accept in part of paiment of the infinite debt, in which I acknowledge my selfe bounden unto you for your singular favours, and sundrie good turnes, shewed to me at my late being in England; and with your good countenance protect against the malice of evill mouthes, which are alwaies wide open to carpe at and misconstrue my simple meaning. I pray continually for your happinesse. From my house of Kilcolman, the 27. of December.
1591. [rather perhaps 1595].
Your ever humbly,
Ed. Sp.
The shepheards boy (best knowen by that name)
That after Tityrus first sung his lay,
Laies of sweet love, without rebuke or blame,
Sate (as his custome was) upon a day,
The shepheard swaines that did about him play:
Who all the while, with greedie listfull eares,
Did stand astonisht at his curious skill,
Like hartlesse deare, dismayd with thunders sound.
He rested him: and, sitting then around,
One of those groomes (a iolly groome was he,
As ever piped on an oaten reed,
And lov’d this shepheard dearest in degree,
“Colin, my liefe, my life, how great a losse
Had all the shepheards nation by thy lacke!
And I, poore swaine, of many, greatest crosse!
That, sith thy muse first since thy turning backe
Hast made us all so blessed and so blythe.
Whilest thou wast hence, all dead in dole did lie:
The woods were heard to waile full many a sythe,
And all their birds with silence to complaine:
And all their flocks from feeding to refraine:
The running waters wept for thy returne,
And all their fish with languour did lament:
But now both woods and fields and floods revive,
That us, late dead, hast made againe alive;
But were it not too painefull to repeat
The passed fortunes, which to thee befell
In thy late voyage, we thee would entreat,
To whom the shepheard gently answered thus;
“Hobbin, thou temptest me to that I covet:
For of good passed newly to discus,
By dubble usurie doth twise renew it.
Her worlds bright sun, her heavens fairest light,
My mind, full of my thoughts satietie,
Doth feed on sweet contentment of that sight:
Since that same day in nought I take delight,
But in remembrance of that glory bright,
My lifes sole blisse, my hearts eternall threasure,
Wake then, my pipe; my sleepie muse, awake;
Till I have told her praises lasting long:
Harke then, ye iolly shepheards, to my song.”
With that they all gan throng about him neare,
With hungrie eares to heare his harmonie:
The whiles their flocks, devoyd of dangers feare,
“One day (quoth he) I sat (as was my trade)
Under the foote of Mole, that mountaine here,
Keeping my sheepe amongst the cooly shade
Of the greene alders by the Mullaes shore;
Whether allured with my pipes delight,
Whose pleasing sound yshrilled far about,
Or thither led by chaunce, I know not right:
Whom when I asked from what place he came,
The Shepheard of the Ocean by name.
And said he came far from the main-sea deepe.
He, sitting me beside in that same shade,
Provoked me to plaie some pleasant fit;
He found himselfe full greatly pleased at it:
Yet, æmuling my pipe, he tooke in hond
My pipe, before that æmuled of many,
And plaid theron; (for well that skill he cond;)
He pip’d, I sung; and, when he sung, I piped;
By chaunge of turnes, each making other mery;
Neither envying other, nor envied,
So piped we, untill we both were weary.”
That Cuddy hight, him thus atweene bespake:
“And, should it not thy readie course restraine,
I would request thee, Colin, for my sake,
To tell what thou didst sing, when he did plaie;
Whether it were some hymne, or morall laie,
Or carol made to praise thy loved lasse.”
“Nor of my love, nor of my lasse (quoth he,)
I then did sing, as then occasion fell:
That made me in that desart choose to dwell.
But of my river Bregogs love I soong,
Which to the shiny Mulla he did beare,
And yet doth beare, and ever will, so long
“Of fellowship (said then that bony boy)
Record to us that lovely lay againe:
The staie whereof shall nought these eares annoy,
Who all that Colin makes do covet faine.”
In sort as I it to that shepheard told:
No leasing new, nor grandams fable stale,
But auncient truth confirm’d with credence old.
“Old father Mele, (Mole hight that mountain gray
He had a daughter fresh as floure of May,
Which gave that name unto that pleasant vale;
Mulla, the daughter of old Mole, so hight
The nimph, which of that water course has charge.
To Buttevant, where, spreading forth at large,
It giveth name unto that auncient cittie,
Which Kilnemullah cleped is of old;
Whose ragged mines breed great ruth and pittie
Full faine she lov’d, and was belov’d full faine
Of her owne brother river, Bregog hight,
So hight because of this deceitfull traine,
Which he with Mulla wrought to win delight.
And meaning her much better to preferre,
Did thinke to match her with the neighbour flood,
Which Allo hight, Broad-water called farre;
And wrought so well with his continuall paine,
The dowre agreed, the day assigned plaine,
The place appointed where it should be doone.
Nath’lesse the nymph her former liking held;
For love will not be drawne, but must be ledde;
That her good will he got her first to wedde.
But for her father, sitting still on hie,
Did warily still watch which way she went.
And eke from far observ’d, with iealous eie,
Him to deceive, for all his watchfull ward,
The wily lover did devise this slight:
First into many parts his streame he shar’d,
That, whilest the one was watcht, the other might
And then, besides, those little streames so broken
He under ground so closely did convay,
That of their passage doth appeare no token,
Till they into the Mullaes water slide.
Yet not so secret, but it was descride,
And told her father by a shepheards boy,
Who, wondrous wroth, for that so foule despight,
In great revenge did roll downe from his hill
His passage, and his water-courses spill.
So of a river, which he was of old,
He none was made, but scattred all to nought;
And, lost emong those rocks into him rold,
Which having said, him Thestylis bespake;
“Now by my life this was a mery lay,
Worthie of Colin selfe, that did it make.
But read now eke, of friendship I thee pray,
For I do covet most the same to heare,
As men use most to covet forreine thing.”
“That shall I eke (quoth he) to you declare:
His song was all a lamentable lay
Of Cynthia the Ladie of the Sea,
Which from her presence faultlesse him debar.
And ever and anon, with singulfs rife,
He cryed out, to make his undersong;
Who shall me pittie, when thou doest me wrong?”
Then gan a gentle bonylasse to speake,
That Marin hight; “Right well he sure did plaine,
That could great Cynthiaes sore displeasure breake,
But tell on further, Colin, as befell
Twixt him and thee, that thee did hence dissuade.”
“When thus our pipes we both had wearied well,
(Quoth he) and each an end of singing made,
And great dislyking to my lucklesse lot,
That banisht had my selfe, like wight forlore,
Into that waste, where I was quite forgot.
The which to leave, thenceforth he counseld mee,
And wend with him, his Cynthia to see;
Whose grace was great, and bounty most rewardfull.
Besides her peerlesse skill in making well,
And all the ornaments of wondrous wit,
Such as the world admyr’d, and praised it:
So what with hope of good, and hate of ill,
He me perswaded forth with him to fare.
Nought tooke I with me, but mine oaten quill:
So to the sea we came; the sea, that is
A world of waters heaped up on hie,
Rolling like mountaines in wide wildernesse.
Horrible, hideous, roaring with hoarse crie.”
“Fearful much more (quoth he) then hart can fear:
Thousand wyld beasts with deep mouthes gaping direfull
Therin stil wait poore passengers to teare.
Who life doth loath, and longs death to behold,
And yet would live with heart halfe stonie cold,
Let him to sea, and he shall see it there.
And yet as ghastly dreadfull, as it seemes,
Bold men, presuming life for gaine to sell,
Seek waies unknowne, waies leading down to hell.
For, as we stood there waiting on the strond,
Behold, an huge great vessell to us came,
Dauncing upon the waters back to lond,
Yet was it but a wooden frame and fraile,
Glewed togither with some subtile matter.
Yet had it amies and wings, and head and taile,
And life to move it selfe upon the water.
That neither car’d for wynd, nor haile, nor raine,
Nor swelling waves, bur thorough them did passe
So proudly, that she made them roare againe.
The same aboord us gently did receave,
So farre that land, our mother, us did leave,
And nought but sea and heaven to us appeare.
Then hartelesse quite, and full of inward feare,
That shepheard I besought to me to tell,
In which I saw no living people dwell.
Who, me recomforting all that he might,
Told me that that same was the regiment
Of a great shepheardesse, that Cynthia hight,
“If then (quoth I) a shepheardesse she bee,
Where be the flockes and heards, which she doth keep?
And where may I the hills and pastures see,
On which she useth for to feed her sheepe?”
On which faire Cynthia her heards doth feed:
Her heards be thousand fishes with their frie,
Which in the bosome of the billowes breed.
Of them the shepheard which hath charge in chief,
At sound whereof, they all for their relief
Wend too and fro at evening and at morne.
And Proteus eke with him does drive his heard
Of stinking scales and porcpisces together,
Compelling them which way he list, and whether.
And, I among the rest, of many least,
Have in the Ocean charge to me assignd;
Where I will live or die at her beheast,
Besides an hundred nymphs all heavenly borne,
And of immortall race, doo still attend
To wash faire Cynthiaes sheep, when they be shorne,
And fold them up, when they have made an end.
At sea, beside a thousand more at land:
For land and sea my Cynthia doth deserve
To have in her commandëment at hand.”
Thereat I wondred much, till, wondring more
Which sight much gladed me; for much afore
I feard, least land we never should have eyde:
Thereto our ship her course directly bent,
As if the way she perfectly had knowne.
An island, which the first to west was showne.
From thence another world of land we kend,
Floting amid the sea in ieopardie,
And round about with mightie while rocks hemd,
Those same, the shepheard told me, were the fields
In which dame Cynthia her landheards fed;
Faire goodly fields, then which Armulla yields
None fairer, nor more fruitfull to be red,
An high headland thrust far into the sea,
Like to an home, whereof the name it has,
Yet seemd to be a goodly pleasant lea:
There did a loftie mount at first us greet,
That seemd amid the surges for to fleet,
Much greater then that frame, which us did beare;
There did our ship her fruitfull wombe unlade,
And put us all ashore on Cynthias land.
And is there other then whereon we stand?”
“All! Cuddy (then quoth Colin) thous a fen,
That hast not seene least part of natures worke:
Much more there is unkend then thou doest kon,
For that same land much larger is than this,
And other men and beasts and birds doth feed:
There fruitfull corne, faire trees, fresh herbage is,
And all things else that living creatures need.
No whit inferiour thy Fanchins praise,
Or unto Allo, or to Mulla cleare:
Nought hast thou, foolish boy, seene in thy dales.”
“But if that land be there (quoth he) as here,
And, if like heaven, be heavenly graces there,
Like as in this same world where we do wone?”
“Both heaven and heavenly graces do much more
(Quoth he) abound in that same then this.
Conspire in one to make contented blisse:
No wayling there nor wretchednesse is heard,
No bloodie issues nor no leprosies,
No griesly famine, nor no raging sweard,
The shepheards there abroad may safely lie,
On hills and downes, withouten dread or daunger:
No ravenous wolves the good mans hope destroy,
Nor outlawes fell affray the forest raunger.
And poets wits are had in peerlesse price:
Religion hath lay powre to rest upon her,
Advancing vertue and suppressing vice.
For end, all good, all grace there freely growes,
For God his gifts there plenteously bestowes,
But gracelesse men them greatly do abuse.”
“But say on further (then said Corylas)
The rest of thine adventures, that betyded.”
(Quoth he) as that same shepheard still us guyded,
Untill that we to Cynthiaes presence came:
Whose glorie greater then my simple thought,
I found much greater then the former fame;
But if I her like ought on earth might read,
I would her lyken to a crowne of lillies,
Upon a virgin brydes adorned head,
With roses dight and goolds and daffadillies;
In winch all colours of the rainbow bee;
Or like faire Phebes garlond shining new,
In which all pure perfection one may see.
But vaine it is to thinke, by paragone
Her power, her mercy, and her wisdome, none
Can deeme, but who the Godhead can define.
Why then do I, base shepheard, bold and blind,
Presume the things so sacred to prophane?
The image of the heavens in shape humane.”
With that Alexis broke his tale asunder,
Saying; “By wondring at thy Cynthiaes praise,
Colin, thy selfe thou mak’st us more to wonder,
But let us heare what grace she sliewed thee,
And how that shepheard strange thy cause advanced.”
“The Shepheard of the Ocean (quoth he)
Unto that goddesse grace me first enhanced,
That she thenceforth therein gan take delight;
And it desir’d at timely houres to heare,
All were my notes but rude and roughly dight;
For not by measure of her owne great mynd,
But ioyd that country shepheard ought could fynd
Worth harkening to, emongst the learned throng.”
“Why? (said Alexis then) what needeth shee
That is so great a shepheardesse her selfe,
To heare thee sing, a simple silly elfe?
Or be the shepheards which do serve her laesie,
That they list net their mery pipes applie?
Or be their pipes untunable and craesie,
“Ah! nay (said Colin) neither so, nor so:
For better shepheards be not under skie,
Nor better hable, when they list to blow
Their pipes aloud, her name to glorifie
In faithful service of faire Cynthia:
And there is Corydon though meanly waged,
Yet hablest wit of most I know this day.
And there is sad Alcyon bent to mourne,
Whose gentle spright for Daphnes death doth tourn
Sweet layes of love to endlesse plaints of pittie.
Ah! pensive boy, pursue that brave conceipt
In thy sweet Eglantine of Meriflure;
That may thy muse and mates to mirth allure.
There eke is Palin worthie of great praise,
Albe he envie at my rustick quill:
And there is pleasing Alcon, could he raise
And there is old Palemon free from spight,
Whose carefull pipe may make the hearer rew:
Yet he him selfe may rewed be more right,
That sung so long untill quite hoarse he grew.
In all this skill, though knowen yet to few;
Yet, were he knowne to Cynthia as he ought,
His Elsëis would be redde anew.
Who lives that can match that heroick song,
O dreaded Dread, do not thy selfe that wrong,
To let thy fame lie so in hidden shade:
But call it forth, O call him forth to thee,
To end thy glorie which he hath begun:
No braver poeme can be under sun.
Nor Po nor Tyburs swans so much renowned,
Nor all the brood of Greece so highly praised,
Can match that muse when it with bayes is crowned,
And there is a new shepheard late up sprong,
The which doth all afore him far surpasse;
Appearing well in that well tuned song,
Which late he sung unto a scornfull lasse.
As daring not too rashly mount on hight,
And doth her tender plumes as yet but trie
In loves soft laies and looser thoughts delight.
Then rouze thy feathers quickly, Daniell,
But most, me seemes, thy accent will excell
In tragick plaints and passionate mischance.
And there that Shepheard of the Ocean is,
That spends his wit in loves consuming smart:
That can empierce a princes mightie hart.
There also is (ah no, he is not now!)
But since I said he is, he quite is gone,
Amyntas quite is gone, and lies full low,
Helpe, O ye shepheards, helpe ye all in this,
Helpe Amaryllis this her losse to mourne:
Her losse is yours, your losse Amyntas is,
Amyntas, floure of shepheards pride forlorne:
That ever piped in an oaten quill:
Both did he other, which could pipe, maintaine,
And eke could pipe himselfe with passing skill.
And there, though last not least, is Aetion,
Whose muse, full of high thoughts invention,
Doth like himselfe heroically sound.
All these, and many others mo remaine,
Now, after Astrofell is dead and gone:
Amongst all these was none his paragone.
All these do florish in their sundry kynd,
And do their Cynthia immortall make:
Yet found I lyking in her royall mynd,
Then spake a lovely lasse, hight Lucida!
“Shepheard, enough of shepheards thou hast told,
Which favour thee, and honour Cynthia:
But of so many nymphs, which she doth hold
That seems, with none of them thou fayour foundest,
Or art ingratefull to each gentle mayd,
That none of all their due deserts resoundest.”
“Ah far be it (quoth Colin Clout) fro me,
For that my selfe I do professe to be
Vassall to one, whom all my dayes I serve;
The beame of beautie sparkled from above,
The floure of vertue and pure chastitie,
The pearle of peerlesse grace and modestie:
To her my thoughts I daily dedicate,
To her my heart I nightly martyrize:
To her my love I lowly do prostrate,
My thought, my heart, my love, my life is shee,
And I hers ever onely, ever one:
One ever I all vowed hers to bee,
One ever I, and others never none.”
Whom thou doest so enforce to deifie.
That woods, and hills, and valleyes thou has made
Her name to echo unto heaven hie.
But say, who else vouchsafed thee of grace?”
That all I praise; but in the highest place,
Urania, sister unto Astrofell,
In whose brave mynd, as in a golden cofer,
All heavenly gifts and riches locked are;
And in her sex more wonderfull and rare.
Ne lesse piaise-worthie I Theana read,
Whose goodly beames though they be over dight
With mourning stole of carefull wydowhead.
She is the well of bountie and brave mynd,
Excelling most in glorie and great light:
She is the ornament of womankind,
And courts chief garlond with all vertues dight
Doth hold, and next unto her selfe advance,
Well worthie of so honourable place,
For her great worth and noble governance;
Ne lesse praise-worthie is her sister deare,
Whose beautie shyneth as the morning cleare,
With silver deaw upon the roses pearling.
Ne lesse praise-worthie is Mansilia,
Best knowne by bearing up great Cynthiaes traine:
Upon her neeces death I did complaine:
She is the paterne of true womanhead,
And onely mirrhor of feminitie:
Worthie next after Cynthia to tread,
Ne lesse praiseworthie Galathea seemes,
Then best of all that honourable crew,
Faire Galathea with bright shining beames,
Inflaming feeble eyes that her do view.
Yet there is not her won; but here with us
About the borders of our rich Coshma,
Now made of Maa, the nymph delitious.
Ne lesse praiseworthie faire Neæra is,
For of the famous Shure, the nymph she is,
For high desert, advaunst to that degree.
She is the blosome of grace and curtesie,
Adorned with all honourable parts:
Belov’d of high and low with faithfull harts.
Ne lesse praisworthie Stella do I read,
Though nought my praises of her needed arre,
Whom verse of noblest shepheard lately dead
Ne lesse praisworthie are the sisters three,
The honor of the noble familie:
Of which I meanest boast my selfe to be,
And most that unto them I am so nie;
Phyllis, the faire, is eldest of the three:
The next to her is bountifull Charillis:
But th’ youngest is the highest in degree.
Phyllis, the floure of rare perfection,
That, with their beauties amorous reflexion,
Bereave of sence each rash beholders sight.
But sweet Charillis is the paragone
Of peerlesse price, and ornament of praise,
Through the myld temperance of her goodly raies.
Thrise happie do I hold thee, noble swaine,
The which art of so rich a spoile possest,
And, it embracing deare without disdame,
Of all the shepheards daughters which there bee,
And yet there be the fairest under skie,
Or that elsewhere I ever yet did see,
A fairer nymph yet never saw mine eie:
Made by the Maker selfe to be admired;
And like a goodly beacon high addrest,
That is with sparks of hevenlie beautie fired.
But Amaryllis, whether fortunate
That freed is from Cupias yoke by fate.
Since which she doth new bands adventure dread;—
Shepheard, whatever thou hast heard to be
In this or that praysd diversly apart,
And seald up in the threasure of her hart.
Ne thee lesse worthie, gentle Flavia,
For thy chaste life and vertue I esteeme:
Ne thee lesse worthie, curteous Candida,
Besides yet many mo that Cynthia serve,
Right noble nymphs, and high to be commended:
But, if I all should praise as they deserve,
This sun would faile me ere I halfe had ended.
I deeme it best to hold eternally
Their bounteous deeds and noble favours shrynd,
Then by discourse them to indignifie.”
So having said, Aglaura him bespake:
Bestowd on thee, that so of them doest make,
And them requitest with thy thankfull labours.
But of great Cynthiaes goodnesse, and high grace.
Finish the storie which thou hast begunne.”
How to begin, then know how to liave donne.
For everie gift, and everie goodly meed,
Which she on me bestowd, demaunds a day;
And everie day, in which she did a deed,
Her words were like a streame of bonny fleeting,
The which doth softly trickle from the hive:
Hable to melt the hearers heart unweeting,
And eke to make the dead againe alive.
Which load the bunches of the fruitfull vine;
Offring to fall into each mouth that gapes,
And fill the same with store of timely wine.
Her lookes were like beames of the morning sun,
When first the fleecie cattell have begun
Upon the perled grasse to make their feast.
Her thoughts are like the fume of franckincence,
Which from a golden censer forth doth rise,
In rolling globes up to the vaulted skies.
There she beholds, with high aspiring thought,
The cradle of her owne creation,
Emongst the seats of angels heavenly wrought,
“Colin, (said Cuddy then) thou hast forgot
Tliy selfe, me seemes, too much, to mount so hie:
Such loftie flight base shepheard seemeth not,
From flocks and fields, to angels and to skie.”
Lifts me above the measure of my might
That being fild with furious insolence,
I feele my selfe like one yrapt in spright
For when I thinke of her, as oft I ought,
And, when I speake of her what I have thought,
I cannot thinke according to her worth.
Yet will I thinke of her, yet will I speake,
So long as life my limbs doth hold together,
Her name recorded I will leave for ever.
Her name in every tree I will endosse,
That, as the trees do grow, her name may grow:
And in the ground each where will it engrosse,
The speaking woods, and murmuring waters fall,
Her name He teach in knowen termes to frame:
And eke my lambs, when for their dams they call,
He leach to call for Cynthia by name.
Amongst the shepheards daughters dancing rownd,
My layes made of her shall not be forgotten,
But sung by them with flowry gyrlonds crownd.
And ye, who so ye he, that shall survive,
Be witnesse of her bountie here alive,
Which she to Colin her poore shepheard shewed.”
Much was the whole assembly of those heards
Moov’d at his speech, so feelingly he spake:
Till Thestylis at last their silence brake,
Saying: “Why Colin, since thou foundst such grace
With Cynthia and all her noble crew;
Why didst thou ever leave that happie place,
And back returnedst to this baraein soyle,
Where cold and care and penury do dwell,
Here to keep sheepe, with hunger and with toyle?
Most wretched he, that is and cannot tell.”
That may that blessed presence still enioy,
Of fortune and of envy uncomptrold,
Which still are wont most happie states t’ annoy:
But I, by that which little while I prooved,
The which in court continually hooved,
And followd those which happie seemd to bee.
Therefore I, silly man, whose former dayes
Had in rude fields bene altogether spent,
Nor trust the guile of fortunes blandishment;
But rather chose back to my sheep to tonrne,
Whose utmost hardnesse I before had tryde,
Then, having learnd repentance late, to mourne
“Shepheard, (said Thestylis) it seems of spight
Thou speakest thus gainst their felicitie,
Which thou envíest, rather then of right
That ought in them blameworthie thou doest spie.”
To quite them ill, that me demeand so well:
But selfe-regard of private good or ill
Moves me of each, so as I found, to tell
And eke to warne yong shepheards wandring wit,
Abandon quiet home to seeke for it,
And leave their lambes to losse misled amisse.
For, sooth to say, it is no sort of life,
For shepheard fit to lead in that same place,
To thrust downe other into foule disgrace,
Himselfe to raise: and he doth soonest rise
That best can handle his deceitfull wit
In subtil shifts, and finest sleights devise,
Through leasings lewd, and fained forgerie;
Or else by breeding him some blot of blame,
By creeping close into his secrecie;
To which him needs a guilefull hollow hart,
A filed toung, furnisht with tearmes of art,
No art of schoole, but courtiers schoolery.
For arts of schoole have there small countenance,
Counted but toyes to busie ydle braines;
But to be instruments of others gaines.
Ne is there place for any gentle wit,
Unlesse, to please, it selfe it can applie;
But shouldred is, or out of doore quite shyt,
For each mans worth is measured by his weed,
As harts by hornes, or asses by their eares:
Yet asses been not all whose eares exceed,
Nor yet all harts that homes the highest beares.
Nor haughtie words most full of highest thoughts
But are like bladders blowen up with wynd,
That being prickt do vanish into noughts.
Even such is all their vaunted vanitie,
Such is their glorie that in simple eie
Seeme greatest, when their garments are most gay.
So they themselves for praise of fooles do sell.
And all their wealth for painting on a wall;
And purchase highest rowmes in bowre and hall:
Whiles single Truth and simple Honestie
Do wander up and downe despys’d of all;
Their plaine attire such glorious gallantry
“Ah! Colin, (then said Hobbinol) the blame
Which thou imputest, is too generall,
As if not any gentle wit of name
Nor honest mynd might there be found at all.
To wait on Lobbin, (Lobbin well thou knewest,)
Full many worthie ones then waiting were,
As ever else in princes court thou vewest.
Of which, among you many yet remaine,
Those that poore sutors papers do retaine,
And those that skill of medicine professe,
And those that do to Cynthia expound
The ledden of straunge languages in charge:
And gives to their professors stipends large.
Therefore uniustly thou doest wyte them all,
For that which thou mislikedst in a few.”
“Blame is (quoth he) more blamelesse generall,
For well I wot, that there amongst them bee
Full many persons of right worthie parts,
Both for report of spotlesse honestie,
And for profession of all learned arts,
Though blame do light on those that faultie bee;
For all the rest do most what far amis,
And yet their owne misfaring will not see:
For either they be puffed up with pride,
Or they their dayes to ydlenesse divide,
Or drownded lie in pleasures wastefull well,
In which like moldwarps nousling still they lurke,
Unmindfull of chiefe parts of manlinesse;
Vaine votaries of laesie Love professe,
Whose service high so basely they ensew,
That Cupid selfe of them ashamed is,
And, mustring all his men in Venus vew,
“And is Love then (said Corylas) once knowne
In court, and his sweet lore professed there?
I weened sure he was our god alone,
And only woond in fields and forests here?”
For all the walls and windows there are writ,
All full of love, and love, and love my deare,
And all their talke and studie is of it.
Ne any there doth brave or valiant seeme,
Ne any one himselfe doth ought esteeme,
Unlesse he swim in love up to the eares.
But they of Love, and of his sacred lere,
(As it should be) all otherwise devise,
And him do sue and serve all otherwise.
For with lewd speeches, and licentious deeds,
His mightie mysteries they do prophane,
And use his ydle name to other needs.
So him they do not serve as they professe,
But make him serve to them for sordid uses:
Ah! my dread lord, that doest liege hearts possesse,
Avenge thy selfe on them for their abuses.
Or through our rudenesse into errour led,
Do make religion how we rashly go
To serve that god, that is so greatly dred;
For him the greatest of the gods we deeme,
For Venus selfe doth soly couples seeme,
Both male and female through commixture ioyned:
So pure and spotlesse Cupid forth she brought,
And in the gardens of Adonis nurst:
And shortly was of all the gods the first.
Then got he bow and shafts of gold and lead,
In which so fell and puissant he grew,
That love himselfe his powre began to dread,
From thence he shootes his arrowes every where
Into the world, at randon as he will,
On us fraile men, his wretched vassals here
Like as himselfe us pleaseth save or spill.
With humble hearts to heaven uplifted hie
That to true loves he may us evermore
Preferre, and of their grace us dignifie:
Ne is there shepheard, ne yet shepheards swaine,
That dare with evil deed or leasing vaine
Blaspheme his powre, or termes unworthie yield.”
“Shepheard, it seemes that some celestiall rage
Of Love (quoth Cuddy) is breath’d into thy brest,
Of that high powre, wherewith thou art possest.
But never wist I till this present day,
Albe of Love I alwayes humbly deemed,
That he wus such an one, as thou doest say,
Well may it seeme, by this thy deep insight,
That of that god the priest thou shouldest bee:
So well thou wot’st the myterie of his might,
As if his godhead thou didst present see.”
Or of his nature rightly to define,
Indeed (said Colin) passeth reasons reach,
And needs his priest t’ expresse his powre divine.
For long before the world he was ybore,
For by his powre the world was made of yore,
And all that therein wondrous doth appeare.
For how should else things so far from attone,
And so great enemies as of them bee,
And taught in such accordance to agree?
Through him the cold began to covet heat,
And water fire; the light to mount on hie,
And th’ heavie downe to peize; the hungry t’ eat
So, being former foes, they wexed friends,
And gan by litle learne to love each other:
So, being knit, they brought forth other kynds
Out of the fruitfull wombe of their great mother.
For to appeare, and brought forth chearfull day:
Next gan the earth to shew her naked head,
Out of deep waters which her drownd alway:
And, shortly after, everie living wight
Soone as on them the sun’s life-giving light
Had powred kindly heat and formall feature,
Thenceforth they gan each one his like to love,
And like himselfe desire for to beget:
Her deare, the dolphin his owne dolphinet;
But man, that had the sparke of reasons might
More then the rest to rule his passion,
Chose for his love the fairest in his sight,
For beautie is the bayt which with delight
Doth man allure for to enlarge his kynd;
Beautie, the burning lamp of heavens light,
Darting her beames into each feeble mynd:
Defence, ne ward the daunger of the wound;
But, being hurt, seeke to be medicynd
Of her that first did stir that mortall stownd.
Then do they cry and call to love apace,
Whence he them heares; and, when he list shew grace,
Does graunt them grace that otherwise would die.
So Love is lord of all the world by right,
And rules their creatures by his powrfull saw:
Through secret sence which therto doth them draw.
Thus ought all lovers of their lord to deeme;
And with chaste heart to honor him alway:
But who so else doth otherwise esteeme,
For their desire is base, and doth not merit
The name of love, but of disloyall lust:
Ne mongst true lovers they shall place inherit,
But as exuls out of his court be thrust.”
“Colin, thou now full deepely hast divynd
Of Love and beautie; and, with wondrous skill,
Hast Cupid selfe depainted in his kynd,
To thee are all true lovers greatly bound,
But most, all women are thy debtors found,
That doest their bountie still so much commend.
“That ill (said Hobbinol) they him requite,
For having loved ever one most deare:
That yrkes each gentle heart which it doth heare.”
“Indeed (said Lucid) I have often heard
Faire Rosalind of divers fowly blamed
For being to that swaine too cruell hard;
But who can tell what cause had that faire mayd
To use him so that used her so well;
Or who with blame can iustly her upbrayd.
For loving not? for who can love compell?
Rashly to wyten creatures so divine;
For demigods they be and first did spring
From heaven, though graft in frailnesse feminine.
And well I wote, that oft I heard it spoken,
Through iudgement of the gods to been ywroken,
Lost both his eyes and so remaynd long while,
Till he recanted had his wicked rimes,
And made amends to her with treble praise.
How rashly blame of Rosalind ye raise.”
“Ah! shepheards, (then said Colin) ye ne weet
How great a guilt upon your heads ye draw,
To make so bold a doome, with words unmeet,
For she is not like as the other crew
Of shepheards daughters which emongst you bee,
But of divine regard and heavenly hew,
Excelling all that ever ye did see.
But to my selfe the blame that lookt so hie:
So hie her thoughts as she her selfe have place,
And loath each lowly thing with loftie eie.
Yet so much grace let her vouchsafe to grant
Yet that I may her honour paravant,
And praise her worth, though far my wit above.
Such grace shall be some guerdon for the griefe,
And long affliction which I have endured:
And ease of paine which cannot be recured.
And ye, my fellow shepheards, which do see
And hear the languors of my too long dying,
Unto the world for ever witnesse bee,
This simple trophe of her great conquest.”—
So, having ended, he from ground did rise;
And after him uprose eke all the rest:
All loth to part, but that the glooming skies