"Ye gods of love! that pity lovers pain (If any gods the pain of lovers pity), Look from above, where you in joys remain, And bow your ears unto my dolefull ditty. And, Pan! thou fhepherd's god, that once did love,

Pity the pains that thou thyself didst prove.

Thou barren ground, whom winter's wrath hath wafted,

Art made a mirror to behold my plight; Whylom thy fresh spring flower'd, and after hafted,

Thy Summer proud, with daffadillies dight, And now is come thy Winter's stormy state, Thy mantle marr'd wherein thou maskedst late.

Such rage as winter reigneth in my heart,
My life-blood freezing with unkindly cold;
Such stormy ftours do breed my balefull fiart,
As if my years were wafte and woxen old;
And yet, alas! but now my spring begun,
And yet, alas! it is already done.

You naked trees, whofe fhady leaves are loft, Wherein the birds were wont to build their bower,

And now are cloath'd with moss and hoary froft, Inftead of blofms, wherewith your buds did flower,

I fee your tears that from your boughs do rain,
Whofe drops in drery ificles remain.

Alfo my luftfull leafe is dry and fear,
My timely buds with wailing all are wafted;
The bloffoms which my branch of youth did
bear,

With breathed fighs is blown away and blafted;
And from mine eyes the drizling tears defcend,
As on your boughs the ificles depend.

Thou feeble Flock! whose fleece is rough and

rent,

Whofe knees are weak through fast and evil fare,
Maift witness well, by thy ill government,
Thy master's mind is overcome with care :

Thou weak, I wan; thou lean, I quite forlorn:
With mourning pine I; you with pining mourn.

A thousand fithes I curfe that careful hour
Wherein I long the neighbour town to fee,
And eke ten thousand fithes I bless the ftour
Wherein I faw fo fair a fight as the:

Yet all for naught: fuch fight hath bred my bane, Ah, God! that love should breed both joy and pain!

It is not Hobbinol wherefore I plain,
Albe my love he seek with daily fuit :
His clownish gifts and courtefies I disdain,
His kids, his cracknels, and his early fruit.
Ah, foolish Hobbino! thy gifts been vain ;
Colin them gives to Rofalind again.

I love thilk lafs (alas! why do I love?)
And am forlorn, (alas! why am I lorn?)
She deigns not my good will, but both reprove,
And of my rural mufic holdeth fcorn.
Shepherd's device fhe hateth as the snake,
And laughs the fongs that Colin Clout doth
make.

Wherefore, my Pipe, albe rude Pan thou please Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would, | And thou unlucky Muse, that wontst to ease My mufing mind, yet canft not when tho fhould;

Both pipe and Muse shall fore the while abic." So broke his oaten pipe, and down did lie.

By that the welked Phoebus' gan avail
His weary wain, and now the frofty Night
Her mantle black through heaven 'gan over-hale;
Which. feen, the penfive boy, half in despight,
Arofe, and homeward drove his fullen fheep,'
Whose hanging heads did feem his careful cafe to
weep.

COLIN'S EMBLEM,

Anchora Speme