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Cuddy, a young shepherd, inveighing against the season of the year, and comparing to old age, which

he treats with scorn, is reprov'd by Thenot, an old shepherd, who, to shew him his folly, rcm lates a moral fable of an Cak and a Briar, but without curing the young shepherd's vanity. By Tityrus, mention'd in this Æglogue, and elsewhere in the Author's works, is meant Geoffrey Chaucer, in imitation of whose file and manner this Æglogue is written.



Au for pitty! will rank winter's rage
These bitter blasts never 'gin t'asswage?
The keen cold blows through my beaten hide,
All as I were through the body gride :
My ragged ronts all fhiver and shake,
As done high towers in an earthquake :
They wont in the wind wag their wriggle tails
Peark as a peacock; but now it avails.

THE. Leudly coniplainest, thou lazy lad,
Of winter's wrack for making thee sad?
Must not the world wend in his common course,
Trom good to bad, and from bad to worse,
From worse into that is worst of all,
And then return to his former fall ?
Who will not suffer the stormy time,
Where will he live till the lusty prime ?

Self have I worn out thrice thirty years,
Some in much joy, many in many tears,
Yet never complained of cold nor heat,
Of summer's flame, nor of winter's threat,
Ne never was to Fortune foe-man,
But gently took that ungently came ;
And ever my flock was my chief care,
Winter or summer they mought well fare.

CUD. No marvel, Thenot, if thou can bear
Chearfully the winter's wrathful chear,
For age and winter accord full nigh,
This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wry;
And as the lowring weather looks down,
So seemeft thou like Good-Friday to frowni
But my flowring youth is foe to frolt,
My ship unwont in storms to be tolt.

THE. The sovereign of seas he blames in | Than to hear novels of his devise ; vain,

They been so well chewed, and so wise, That once fea-beat will to sea again :

What ever that good old man bespake. So loytring live you little heard-grooms,

The. Many meet tales of youth did he Keeping your beasts in the budded broomsg

make, And when the ihining sun laughech once,

And some of love, and some of chivalry,
You deemen the 1pring is come at once :

But none fitter than this to apply.
Tho gin you, fond Flics! the cold to scorn, Now liften a while and hearken the end.
And, crowing in pipes made of

green corn,

“ There grew an aged tree on the green, You thinken to be lords of the year;

A goodly Oak fimetime had it been,
But eft when ye count you freed from fear, With arms full strong and largely display'!,
Comes the brenie Winter with chamfred brows, But of cheir leaves they were dilaray'd :
Full of wrinkles and frotty furrows,

The body big and mightily pight,
Drerily shooting his stormy dart,

Throughly rooted, and of wondrous height; Which cruddles the blood and pricks the heart : Whilom had been the king of the field, Then is your careless courage accoyd,

And mochel mast to the husband did yield,
Your careful herds with cold be annoyed : And with his nuts larded njany wine,
Then pay you the price of your surquedry, But now the gray moss marred his rine,
With weeping, and wailiog, and milery,

His bared boughs were beaten with storms,
CUD, Ah! foolish old Man! I scorn thy skill, His top was bald, and waited with worms,
That wouldft me my springing youth co fpill ; His honour decay'd, his braunches fere.
I deem thy brain emperished be

Hard by his fide grew a bragging Breere, Through rusty eld, that hath rotted thee;

Which proudly thruit into th'clement, Or fiker thy head very touty is,

And seemed to threat the firmament : So on thy corb shoulder it leans amiss.

It was embellisht with bloilonis fair, Now thy self hath lost both lop and top,

And thereto aye wonted to repair Als my budding branch thou wouldest crop, The shepherd's daughters to gather flowres, But were thy years green, as now been mine, To paint their gas lands with his colowres, *To other delights they would encline :

And in his small bushes used to shroud, T'ho wouldeít thou learn to caro. of love,

The sweet nightingale singing so loud, And hery with hymns thy lasses glove;

Which made this foolish Breere wex fo bold? Tho wouldest thou pipe of Phillis' praise,

That on a time he cast him to scold, But Phillis is mine for many days;

And sneb the good Oak, for he was old. I wone her with a girdle of gelt,

Why stand's there (quoth he) chou brutish Embost with bugle aboue the belt :

block ? Such an one Mepherds would make full fain; Nor for fruit nor for shadow serves thy stock; Such an one would make thee young again. Seest how fresh my flowres been spread,

THE. Thou art a foo, of thy love to bolt; Died in lilly white and crimson red, All that is lent to love will be loft.

With leaves engrained in lusty green, Cud. Seest how brag yond bullock bears, Colours met to cloath a maiden queen? Su smirk, so smooth, his pricked ears ?

Thy waste bigness but cumbers the ground, His horns been as brade as rainbow bent,

And dirks the beauty of my blofsoms round: His dewlap as lythe as lafs of Kent :

The mouldy mols, which thee accloyeth, See how he venteth into the wind,

My cinamon smell too much annoyeth : Weenest of love is not his mind?

Wherefore foon I rede thee hence remove, Seemeth thy flock thy counsel can,

Left thou the price of my displeasure prove. So luftless been they, so weak, so wan;

So spake this bold Breere with great disdain, Cloathed with cold, and hoary with frost,

Little him answer'd the Oak again, Thy flock's father his courage hath loft.

But yielded, with thame and grief adaw'd, Thy ewes, that wont to have blown blags,

That of a weed he was over-craw'd. Like wailful widdows hangen their crags;

It chaunced after upon a day, The rather lambs been starved with cold,

The husband-man's felf io come that way,
All for their master is lustless and old.

Os cuitom to survicw his ground,
THE. Cuddy, I wot thou kenst little good, And his trecs of state in compass round :
So vainly to advance thy headless hood;

Him when the spightful Breere hud efpyed,
For youth is a bubble blown up with breath, Causelefs complained, and loudly cryed
Whose wit is weakness, whose wage is death, Unto his lord stirring up stern strise :
Whose way is wilderness, whose inn penaunce, O my liege Lord! the god of my life,
And stoop gallant age, the host of grievaunce. Plealeth you pond your suppliant's plaint,
But shall I tell thee a tale of truth,

Caused of wrong and cruell constraint, Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth,

Which I your poor vafal daily endure; Keeping his sheep on the hills of Kent?

And but your goodness the same recure, CUD. To naught more, Thenot, my mind is Ani like for desperate dole to die, bant

Through felonous force of mine chemy.

Greatly aghast with this piteous plea,

And often croft with the priests' crcto, Him rested the good man on the lea,

And often hallowed with holy-water dew; And bad the Breere in his plaint proceed.

But like fancies weren foolery, With painted words tho gan this proud weed And broughten this Oak to this misery; (As most usen ambitious folk)

For nought mought they quitten him from decay, His colour'd crime with craft to cloke.

For fiercely the good man at him did lay. Ah, my Sovereign! lord of creatures all, The block oft groaned under his blow, Thou placer of plants both humble and tall, And sighed to fce his near overthrow. Was not I planted of thine own hand,

In fine, the steel had pierced his pith, To be the primrose of all thy land,

Tho down to the ground he fell forth with. With flowring blossoms to furnish the prime, His wondrous weight made the ground to quake, And scarlet berries in sommer-time?

Th' earth shrunk under him, and seem'd to shake: How falls it then that this faded Oak,

There lieth the Oak pitied of none. Whose body is sere, whose branches broke,

Now ftands the Breere like a lord alone, Whose naked arms ftretch unto the fire,

Puff'd up with pride and vain plealance ; Unto such tyranny doth aspire,

But all this glee had no continuance : Hindring with his fhade my lovely light,

For eftsoons winter 'gan to approach, And robbing me of the sweet fun's light?

The blustering Boreas did encroach, So beat his old boughs my tender side,

And beat upon the folitary Breere, That oft the bloud springeth from woundes wide;

For nos

no fuccour was seen him neere. Untimely my flowers forced to fall,

Now 'gan he repent his pride too late, That been the honour of your coronal;

For naked left and disconfolate, And oft he lets his canker-worms light

The biting frost nipe his stalk dead, Upon my branches, to work me more spight; The watry wet weighed down his head, And oft his hoary locks down doth cast,

And heaped Inow burdned hinı so fore, Wherewith my fresh flowrets been defalt :

That now upright he cau ftand no more ; For this, and many more such outrage,

And being down is trod in the durt Craving your godlyhead to assuage

Of caztel, and brouzed, and forely hurt. The rancorous rigour of his might;

Such was th’end of this ambitious Breere, Nought ask I, but onely to hold my right,

For (corning eldSubmitting me to your good sufferaunca

CUD. Now I pray thee shepherd, tell it not And praying to be garded from grievaunce,

forth: To this this Oak cast him to reply

Here is a long tale and little worth. Well as he couth; but his enemy

So long have 1 littened to thy speech, Had kindlcd such coles of displeasure,

That graffcd to the ground is my breech; That the good man nould stay his leasure, My hearc-blood is well nigh frozen 1 feel, But home him hasted with furious heat,

And my galage grown fait to my heel; Encrcasing his wrath with many a threat ; But liucle ease of shy leud tale I tafted; His harmful hatchet he hent in hand,

Hie thee home, Shepherd, the day is nigh wafted. (Alas! that it so ready fhould stand!) And to the field alone he speedeth, (Aye little help to harm there needeth)

Anger nould let him speak to the tree,
Inaunter his rage mought cooled be,

Idilio, perche é vecchio,
But to the root bent his iturdy stroak,

Fa fuoi al suo esempio.
And made many wounds in the waste Oak.
The axe's edge did oft turn again,
As half unwilling to cut the grain,

Scemed the senseless iron did fear,
Or to wrong holy eld did forbear;

Niuno vecchio,
For it had been an antient tree,

Spaventa iddio. Sacred with many a mystery,

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The Argument. Two shepherds take occafion, from the approach of the spring, to discourse of love, describ'd here as a

person. One of them relates a story of his having discover'd him lately hid in a bush, and of his being wounded by him.



Tumalin, why sitten we so,
As weren overwent with woe,
Upon so fair a morrow?
The joyous time now nigheth fast,
Thac shall alegg this bitter blatt,
And fake the winter sorrow.

Tho. Siker, Willy, thou warnest well,
For winter's wrath begins to quell,
And pleasant spring appeareth;
The grass now 'gins to be refresht,
The swallow peeps out of her nest,
And cloudy welkin clearcth.

Seeft not thilk fame hawthorn stud,
How bragly it begins to bud
And utter his tender head ?
Flora now calleth forth each flower,
And bids make ready Maia's bower,
That new is uprift from bed :
Tho shall we sporten in delight,
And learn with Lettice to wex light,


That scornfully looks aíkaunce;
Tho will we little love awake,
That now sleepeth in Lethe lake,
And pray him leaden our daunce.

Tho. Willy, I ween thou be a sot,
For lusty Love still feepeth not,
But is abroad at his game.

WIL. How kenst thou that he is awoke?
Or haft thy self his flumber broke?
Or made privy to the fame?

tuo. No; but happily I him spide, Where in a bulh he did him hide, With wings of purple and blue; And were not that my sheep would stray, The privy marks I would bewray, Whereby by chaunce I him knew.

WIL. Thomalin, have no care for-thy, My felf will have a double eye, Ylike to my flock and thine ; For, alas! at home I have a fire, A stepdame eke, as hot as fire, That duly adays counts mine,


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Tho. Nay but thy seeing will not serve, As thick as it had hailed.
My theep for that may chaunce to swerve, So long I shot, that all was spent,
And fall into some mischief:

Tho pumy stones I hastily hent,
For fithens is but the third morrow

And threw, but nought availed : That I chaunst to fall asleep with sorrow,

He was so wimble and so wight, And waked again with grief ;

From bough to bough he leaped light, The while thilk same unhappy owe,

And oft the pumies latched : Whose clouted leg her hurt doth shew,

Therewith afraid I ran away, Fell headlong into a dell,

But he that earst seem'd but to play, And there unjointed both her bones :

A shaft in earnest snatched, Mought her neck been jointed attones,

And hit me running in the heel; She should have need no more fpell;

For then I little smart did feel, 'Th'elf was so wanton and so wood,

But soon it fore increased; (But now I trow can better good)

And now it rankleth more and more, She mought ne gang on the green,

And inwardly it feltreth fore, wil. Let be as may be that is past;

Ne wote I how to cease it. That is to come let be forecast :

wil. Thomalin, I pity thy plight, Now tell us what thou hast seen.

Perdy with Love thou diddest fight,
Tuo. It was upon a holy-day,

I know him by a token ;
When shepherds grooms han leave to play, For once I heard my father say
I cait to go a shooting ;

How he him caught upon a day,
Long wandring up and down the land,

(Whereof he will be wroken) With bow and bolts in either hand,

Entangled in a fowling net For birds in bushes tooting,

Which he for carrion-crows had set At length within the ivy tod,

That in our pear-tree haunted ! (There shrouded was the little god)

Tho said he was a winged lad, i heard a busie bustling ;

Bur bow and shafts as then none had, I bent niy bolt against the bush,

Else had he fore be daunted. Liftning if any thing did rush,

But see, the welkin thicks apace, But then heard no more rustling.

And stooping Phæbus steeps his face ;
Tho peeping close into the thick,

It's time to hafte us homeward.
Might see the moving of some quick,
Whose shape appcared not;
But were it fairy, fiend, or snake,

My courage earn'd it to awake,
And manfully thereat shot :

To be wife and eke to love,
With that sprang forth a naked swain,

Is graunted foarce to gods above.
With spotted wings like peacock's train,
And laughing lope to a tree;
His gilden quiver at his back,

And silver bow, which was but slack,
Which lightly he bent at me :

Of boncy and of gall in love tbere is ftare; That seeing I level'd again,

The boney is much, but the gell is store. And shot at him with might and main,

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