Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599). The Complete Poetical Works. 1908.
The Shepheardes CalenderJanuarye
A
When winters wastful spight was almost spent,
All in a sunneshine day, as did befall,
Led forth his flock, that had bene long ypent.
So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde,
That now unnethes their feete could them uphold.
For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while!)
May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke:
Well couth he tune his pipe, and frame his stile.
Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde,
And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there fedde.
(If any gods the paine of lovers pitie,)
Looke from above, where you in joyes remaine,
And bowe your eares unto my dolefull dittie.
And Pan, thou shepheards god, that once didst love,
Pitie the paines that thou thy selfe didst prove.
Art made a myrrhour to behold my plight:
Whilome thy fresh spring flowrd, and after hasted
Thy sommer prowde with daffadillies dight,
And now is come thy wynters stormy state,
Thy mantle mard wherein thou maskedst late.
My life bloud friesing with unkindly cold:
Such stormy stoures do breede my balefull smart,
As if my yeare were wast and woxen old.
And yet, alas! but now my spring begonne,
And yet, alas! yt is already donne.
Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre,
And now are clothd with mosse and hoary frost,
Instede of bloosmes, wherwith your buds did flowre:
I see your teares, that from your boughes doe raine,
Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine.
My timely buds with wayling all are wasted;
The blossome which my braunch of youth did beare
With breathed sighes is blowne away and blasted;
And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend,
As on your boughes the ysicles depend.
Whose knees are weake through fast and evill fare,
Mayst witnesse well by thy ill governement,
Thy maysters mind is overcome with care.
Thou weake, I wanne; thou leane, I quite forlorne:
With mourning pyne I; you with pyning mourne.
Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see:
And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure
Wherein I sawe so fayre a sight as shee.
Yet all for naught: such sight hath bred my bane.
Ah, God! that love should breede both joy and payne!
Albee my love he seeke with dayly suit:
His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine,
His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit.
Ah, foolish Hobbinol! thy gyfts bene vayne:
Colin them gives to Rosalind againe.
And am forlorne, (alas! why am I lorne?)
Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reprove,
And of my rurall musick holdeth scorne.
Shepheards devise she hateth as the snake,
And laughes the songes that Colin Clout doth make.
Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would:
And thou, unlucky Muse, that wontst to ease
My musing mynd, yet canst not, when thou should:
Both pype and Muse shall sore the while abye.’
So broke his oaten pype, and downe dyd lye.
His weary waine, and nowe the frosty Night
Her mantle black through heaven gan over-haile.
Which seene, the pensife boy, halfe in despight,
Arose, and homeward drove his sonned sheepe,
Whose hanging heads did seeme his carefull case to weepe.
Anchôra speme.
GLOSSE
Colin Cloute is a name not greatly used, and yet have I sene a poesie of Maister Skeltons under that title. But indeede the word Colin is Frenche, and used of the French poete Marot (if he be worthy of the name of a poete) in a certein æglogue. Under which name this poete secretly shadoweth himself, as sometime did Virgil under the name of Tityrus, thinking it much fitter then such Latine names, for the great unlikelyhoode of the language.
Unnethes, scarcely.
Couthe commeth of the verbe Conne, that is, to know or to have skill. As well interpreteth the same the worthy Sir Tho. Smitth, in his booke of government: wherof I have a perfect copie in wryting, lent me by his kinseman, and my verye singular good freend, Maister Gabriel Harvey: as also of some other his most grave and excellent wrytings.
Sythe, time.
Neighbour towne, the next towne: expressing the Latine vicina.
Stoure, a fitt.
Sere, withered.
His clownish gyfts imitateth Virgils verse,
I love, a prety epanorthosis in these two verses, and withall a paronomasia or playing with the word, where he sayth, I love thilke lasse (alas, &c.
Rosalinde is also a feigned name, which, being wel ordered, wil bewray the very name of hys love and mistresse, whom by that name he coloureth. So as Ovide shadoweth hys love under the name of Corynna, which of some is supposed to be Julia, themperor Augustus his daughter, and wyfe to Agryppa. So doth Aruntius Stella every where call his lady Asteris and Ianthis, albe it is wel knowen that her right name was Violantilla: as witnesseth Statius in his Epithalamium. And so the famous paragone of Italy, Madonna Cœlia, in her letters envelopeth her selfe under the name of Zima: and Petrona under the name of Bellochia. And this generally hath bene a common custome of counterfeicting the names of secret personages.
Avail, bring downe.
Overhaile, drawe over.