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THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR.

FEBRUARY.

GLOGA SECUNDA.

The Argument.

Cuddy, a young fhepherd, 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 fhew him his folly, re、 lates a moral fable of an Oak and a Briar, but without curing the young fhepherd's vanity. By Tityrus, mention'd in this Æglogue, and elsewhere in the Author's works, is meant Geoffrey Chaucer, in imitation of whofe ftile and manner this Æglogue is written.

1

CUDDY, THENOT.

Н

CUDDY.

AH for pitty! will rank winter's rage
Thefe bitter blafts never 'gin t'affwage?
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 complaineft, thou lazy lad,
Of winter's wrack for making thee fad?
Muft not the world wend in his common course,
From good to bad, and from bad to worse,

From worfe unto that is worst of all,
And then return to his former fall?
Who will not fuffer the ftormy time,
Where will he live till the lufty 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 fummer'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 fummer 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 feemeft thou like Good-Friday to frown;
But my flowring youth is foe to froft,
My fhip unwont in ftorms to be toft.

THE. The fovereign of feas he blames in Than to hear novels of his devife;

vain,

That once fea-beat will to fea again :
So loytring live you little heard-grooms,
Keeping your beafts in the budded brooms
And when the fhining fun laugheth once,
You deemen the fpring is come at once:
Tho gin you, fond Flies! the cold to fcorn,
And, crowing in pipes made of green corn,
You thinken to be lords of the year;
But eft when ye count you freed from fear,
Comes the brenge Winter with chamfred brows,
Full of wrinkles and frosty furrows,
Drerily fhooting his formy dart,

Which cruddles the blood and pricks the heart:
Then is your carclefs courage accoyd,
Your careful herds with cold be annoyed:
Then pay you the price of your furquedry,
With weeping, and wailing, and mifery,

CUD. Ah! foolish old Man! I fcorn thy fkill,
That wouldft me my fpringing youth to spill;
I deem thy brain emperished be

Through rufty eld, that hath rotted thee;
Or fiker thy head very totty is,
So on thy corb fhoulder it leans amifs.
Now thy felf hath loft both lop and top,
Als my budding branch thou wouldest crop,
But were thy years green, as now been mine,
To other delights they would encline:
Tho wouldeft thou learn to carol of love,
And hery with hymns thy laffes glove;
Tho wouldeft thou pipe of Phillis' praise,
But Phillis is mine for many days;
I wone her with a girdle of gelt,
Emboft with bugle about the belt :
Such an one shepherds would make full fain;
Such an one would make thee young again.
THE. Thou art a fon, of thy love to boft;
All that is lent to love will be loft.

CUD. Seeft how brag yond bullock bears,
So fmirk, so smooth, his pricked ears?
His horns been as brade as rainbow bent,
His dewlap as lythe as lafs of Kent:
See how he venteth into the wind,
Weenest of love is not his mind?
Seemeth thy flock thy counsel can,
So luftless been they, fo weak, fo wan;
Cloathed with cold, and hoary with froft,
Thy flock's father his courage hath loft.
Thy ewes, that wont to have blown blags,
Like wailful widdows hangen their crags;
The rather lambs been starved with cold,
All for their mafter is luftlefs and old.

THE. Cuddy, I wot thou kenft little good,
So vainly to advance thy headless hood;
For youth is a bubble blown up with breath,
Whose wit is weakness, whose wage is death,
Whose way is wildernefs, whofe inn penaunce,
And stoop gallant age, the hoft of grievance.
But fhall I tell thee a tale of truth,
Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth,
Keeping his sheep on the hills of Kent?

CUD. To naught more, Thenot, my mind is

bent

They been fo well thewed, and fo wife, What ever that good old man befpake.

THE. Many meet tales of youth did he make,

And fome of love, and fome of chivalry,
But none fitter than this to apply.
Now liften a while and hearken the end.
"There grew an aged tree on the green,
A goodly Oak fometime had it been,
With arms full ftrong and largely difplay'd,
But of their leaves they were difaray d:
The body big and mightily pight,
Throughly rooted, and of wondrous height;
Whilom had been the king of the field,
And mochel maft to the hufband did yield,
And with his nuts larded many fwine,
But now the gray mefs marred his rine,
His bared boughs were beaten with storms,
His top was bald, and wafted with worms,
His honour decay'd, his braunches fere.

Hard by his fide grew a bragging Breere,
Which proudly thruft into th' element,
And feemed to threat the firmament:
It was embellifht with bloffoms fair,
And thereto aye wonted to repair
The shepherd's daughters to gather flowres,
To paint their garlands with his colowres,
And in his fmall buthes ufed to shroud,
The fweet nightingale finging fo loud,
Which made this foolish Breere wex fo bold?
That on a time he caft him to scold,
And fneb the good Oak, for he was old.

Why ftand's there (quoth he) thou brutish

block?

Nor for fruit nor for fhadow ferves thy flock;
Seeft how fresh my flowres been spread,
Died in lilly white and crimson red,
With leaves engrained in lufty green,
Colours met to cloath a maiden queen?
Thy wafte bigness but cumbers the ground,
And dirks the beauty of my blossoms round:
The mouldy mofs, which thee accloyeth,
My cinamon fmell too much annoyeth :
Wherefore foon 1 rede thee hence remove,
Left thou the price of my difpleasure prove.
So fpake this bold Breere with great difdain,
Little him anfwer'd the Oak again,
But yielded, with fhame and grief adaw'd,
That of a weed he was over-craw'd.

It chaunced after upon a day,
The hufband-man's felf to come that way,
Of custom to furview his ground,
And his trees of ftate in compass round:
Him when the fpightful Breere had efpyed,
Caufelefs complained, and loudly cryed
Unto his lord ftirring up ftern ftrife:

O my liege Lord! the god of my life, Pleafeth you pond your fuppliant's plaint, Caufed of wrong and cruell constraint, Which I your poor vaffal daily endure; And but your goodnefs the fame recure, Am like for defperate dole to die, Through fele nous force of mine enemy.

Greatly aghaft with this piteous plea, Him refted the good man on the lea, And bad the Breere in his plaint proceed. With painted words tho gan this proud weed (As moft ufen ambitious folk)

His colour'd crime with craft to cloke.

Ah, my Sovereign! lord of creatures all, Thou placer of plants both humble and tall, Was not I planted of thine own hand, To be the primrose of all thy land, With flowring bloffoms to furnish the prime, And fcarlet berries in fommer-time? How falls it then that this faded Oak, Whose body is fere, whofe branches broke, Whofe naked arms ftretch unto the fire, Unto fuch tyranny doth afpire, Hindring with his fhade my lovely light, And robbing me of the sweet fun's fight?

So beat his old boughs my tender fide,

And often croft with the priests' crew,
And often hallowed with holy-water dew
But like fancies weren foolery,

And broughten this Oak to this misery ;
For nought mought they quitten him from decay,
For fiercely the good man at him did lay.
The block oft groaned under his blow,
And fighed to fce his near overthrow.
In fine, the steel had pierced his pith,
Tho down to the ground he fell forthwith.
His wondrous weight made the ground to quake,
Th' earth fhrunk under him, and feem'd to shake:
There lieth the Oak pitied of none.

Now ftands the Breere like a lord alone,
Puff'd up with pride and vain pleasance;
But all this glee had no continuance :
For eftfoons winter 'gan to approach,
The bluftering Boreas did encroach,
And beat upon the folitary Breere,

That oft the bloud fpringeth from woundes wide; For now no fuccour was feen him neere.

Untimely my flowers forced to fall,
That been the honour of your coronal;
And oft he lets his canker-worms light
Upon my branches, to work me more spight;
And oft his hoary locks down doth caft,
Wherewith my fresh flowrets been defaft:
For this, and many more fuch outrage,
Craving your godlyhead to affuage
The rancorous rigour of his might;
Nought afk, but onely to hold my right,
Submitting me to your good fufferaunce
And praying to be garded from grievaunce,
To this this Oak caft him to reply
Well as he couth; but his enemy
Had kindled fuch coles of difpleasure,
That the good man nould ftay his leasure,
But home him hafted with furious heat,
Encreasing his wrath with many a threat;
His harmful hatchet he hent in hand,
(Alas! that it fo ready should stand!)
And to the field alone he speedeth,
(Aye little help to harm there needeth)
Anger nould let him speak to the tree,
Enaunter his rage mought cooled be,
But to the root bent his sturdy ftroak,
And made many wounds in the waste Oak.
The axe's edge did oft turn again,
As half unwilling to cut the grain,
Seemed the fenfelefs iron did fear,
Or to wrong holy eld did forbear;
For it had been an antient tree,
Sacred with many a mystery,

Now 'gan he repent his pride too late,
For naked left and difconfolate,
The biting froft nipt his ftalk dead,
The watry wet weighed down his head,
And heaped fnow burdned him fo fore,
That now upright he cau ftand no more;
And being down is trod in the durt
Of cattel, and brouzed, and forely hurt.
Such was th' end of this ambitious Breere,
For fcorning eld-"

CUD. Now I pray thee fhepherd, tell it not forth:

Here is a long tale and little worth.

So long have I listened to thy fpeech,
That graffed to the ground is my breech;
My heart-blood is well nigh frezen 1 feel,
And my galage grown faft to my heel;
But little cafe of thy leud tale I tafted;
Hie thee home, Shepherd, the day is nigh wafted.

THENOT'S EMBLEM.

Iddio, perche é vecchio, Fa fuoi al fuo effempio.

CUDDY'S EMBLEM,

Niuno vecchio, Spaventa iddiq.

THE SHEPHERD's CALENDAR.

MARCH.

EGLOGA TERTIA.

The Argument.

Two fhepherds take occafion, from the approach of the spring, to discourse of love, defcrib'd here as a perfon. One of them relates a story of his having difcover'd him lately hid in a bufh, and of his being wounded by him.

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WILLY.

THOMALIN, why fitten we so,
As weren overwent with woe,
Upon fo fair a morrow?

The joyous time now nigheth faft,
That fhall alegg this bitter blast,
And flake the winter forrow.

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

WIL. Seeft not thilk fame hawthorn ftud,

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 fhall we fporten in delight,
And learn with Lettice to wex light,
VOL. II,

That fcornfully looks afkaunce;
Tho will we little love awake,
That now fleepeth in Lethe lake,
And pray him leaden our daunce.

THO. Willy, I ween thou be a fot,
For lufty Love ftill fleepeth not,
But is abroad at his game.

WIL. How kenft thou that he is awoke?

Or haft thy felf his flumber broke?

Or made privy to the fame '

THO. No; but happily I him fpide, Where in a bufh he did him hide,

With wings of purple and blue;

And were not that my fheep 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 ftepdame eke, as hot as fire, That duly adays counts mine. Ff

THо. Nay but thy feeing will not serve, My fheep for that may chaunce to fwerve, And fall into fome mischief:

For fithens is but the third morrow
That I chaunft to fall asleep with forrow,
And waked again with grief;
The while thilk fame unhappy owe,
Whofe clouted leg her hurt doth fhew,
Fell headlong into a dell,

And there unjointed both her bones :
Mought her neck been jointed attones,
She should have need no more fpell;
Th' elf was fo wanton and fo wood,
(But now I trow can better good)
She mought ne gang on the green.

WIL. Let be as may be that is paft ;
That is to come let be forecast:
Now tell us what thou haft feen.

THO. It was upon a holy-day,

When thepherds grooms han leave to play,
I cast to go a fhooting;

Long wandring up and down the land,
With bow and bolts in either hand,
For birds in bushes tooting,
At length within the ivy tod,
(There fhrouded was the little god)
I heard a bufie bustling;

I bent my bolt against the bush,
Liftning if any thing did rush,
But then heard no more rustling.
Tho peeping close into the thick,
Might fee the moving of fome quick,
Whose shape appeared not;
But were it fairy, fiend, or fnake,
My courage earn'd it to awake,
And manfully thereat shot:

With that sprang forth a naked fwain,
With spotted wings like peacock's train,
And laughing lope to a tree;
His gilden quiver at his back,
And filver bow, which was but flack,
Which lightly he bent at me :
That feeing I level'd again,

And fhot at him with might and main,

As thick as it had hailed.

So long I fhot, that all was spent,
Tho pumy ftones I hastily hent,
And threw, but nought availed:
He was fo wimble and fo wight,
From bough to bough he leaped light,
And oft the pumies latched :
Therewith afraid I ran away,
But he that earft feem'd but to play,
A fhaft in earnest fnatched,
And hit me running in the heel;
For then I little fmart did feel,
But foon it fore increased;

And now it rankleth more and more,
And inwardly it feftreth fore,

Ne wote I how to cease it.

WIL. Thomalin, I pity thy plight, Perdy with Love thou diddest fight, I know him by a token:

For once I heard my father fay
How he him caught upon a day,
(Whereof he will be wroken)
Entangled in a fowling net

Which he for carrion-crows had fet
That in our pear-tree haunted!
Tho faid he was a winged lad,
But bow and fhafts as then none had,
Elfe had he fore be daunted.
But fee, the welkin thicks apace,
And stooping Phoebus fteeps his face;
It's time to hafte us homeward.

WILLY'S EMBLEM.

To be wife and cke to love,
Is graunted fearce to gods above.

THOMALIN'S EMBLEM.

Of boney and of gall in love there is fore; The boney is much, but the gall is more.

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