Classic Poem

Hobbinoll

Lo, Colin, here the place whose pleasant site
From other shades hath wean'd my wand'ring mind.
Tell me, what wants me here to work delight?
The simple air, the gentle warbling wind,
So calm, so cool, as nowhere else I find;
The grassy ground with dainty daisies dight;
The bramble bush, where birds of every kind
To the water's fall their tunes attemper right.

Colin

O happy Hobbinoll, I bless thy state!
Thou Paradise hast found, which Adam lost.
Here wander may thy flocks early or late
Withouten dread of wolves to bene y-tost.
Thy lovely lays here may'st thou freely boast.
But I, unhappy man, whom cruel fate
And angry gods pursue from coast to coast,
Can nowhere find to shroud my luckless pate.

Hobbinoll

Then if by me thou list advised be,
Forsake the soil that so doth thee bewitch.
Leave me these hills where harbrough nis to see,
Nor holly bush, nor brere, nor winding witch,
And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich
And fruitful flocks bene everywhere to see.
Here no night-ravens lodge more black than pitch,
Nor elvish ghosts, nor ghastly owls do flee.

But friendly fairies, met with many Graces
And lightfoot nymphs, can chase the lingering night
With hay-de-guys and trimly trodden traces,
Whilst sisters nine, which dwell on Parnass' height,
Do make them music for their more delight;
And Pan himself, to kiss their crystal faces,
Will pipe and dance, when Phoebe shineth bright:
Such peerless pleasures have we in these places.

Colin

And I, whilst youth and course of careless years
Did let me walk withouten links of love,
In such delights did joy among my peers.
But riper age such pleasures doth reprove,
My fancy eke from former follies move
To stayed steps: for time in passing wears
(As garments doen, which waxen old above),
And draweth new delights with hoary hairs.

Tho couth I sing of love, and tune my pipe
Unto my plaintive pleas in verses made:
Tho would I seek for queen apples unripe
To give my Rosalind, and in summer shade
Dight gaudy garlands, was my common trade,
To crown her golden locks; but years more ripe,
And loss of her whose love as life I weigh'd,
Those weary wanton toys away did wipe.

Hobbinoll

Colin, to hear thy rhymes and roundelays
Which thou wert wont on wasteful hills to sing
I more delight, than lark in summer days:
Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring,
And taught the birds, which in the lower spring
Did shroud in shady leaves from sunny rays,
Frame to thy song their cheerful chirruping,
Or hold their peace for shame of thy sweet lays.

I saw Calliope, with Muses mo,
Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound,
Their ivory lutes and tambourines forgo,
And from the fountain where they sat around
Run after hastily thy silver sound.
But when they came where thou thy skill didst show,
They drew aback, as half with shame confound
Shepherd to see, them in their art outgo.

Colin

Of Muses, Hobbinoll, I con no skill,
For they bene daughters of the highest Jove
And holden scorn of homely shepherd's quill.
For sith I heard that Pan with Phoebus strove,
Which him to much rebuke and danger drove,
I never list presume to Parnass hill;
But piping low in shade of lowly grove,
I play to please myself, all be it ill.

Nought weigh I who my song doth praise or blame,
Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest.
With shepherd sits not follow flying fame
But feed his flock in fields, where falls hem best.
I wot my rhymes bene rough and rudely drest;
The fitter they my careful case to frame.
Enough is me to paint out my unrest
And pour my piteous plaints out in the same.

The God of shepherds, Tityrus, is dead,
Who taught me homely, as I can, to make.
He whilst he lived was the sovereign head
Of shepherds all that bene with love y-take.
Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly slake
The flames which love within his heart had bred,
And tell us merry tales, to keep us wake
The while our sheep about us safely fed.

Now dead is he, and lieth wrapt in lead
(O why should death on him such outrage show?),
And all his passing skill with him is fled,
The fame whereof doth daily greater grow.
But if on me some little drops would flow
Of that the spring was in his learned head,
I soon would learn these woods to wail my woe,
And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed.

Then should my plaints, caus'd of discourtesy,
As messengers of all my woeful plight,
Fly to my love, wherever that she be,
And pierce her heart with point of worthy wite
As she deserves, that wrought so deadly spite.
And thou, Menalcas, that by treachery
Didst underfong my lass to wax so light,
Shouldst well be known for such thy villainy.

But since I am not as I wish I were,
Ye gentle shepherds, which your flocks do feed
Whether on hills or dales or other where,
Bear witness all of this so wicked deed:
And tell the lass whose flower is wox a weed,
And faultless faith is turned to faithless fere,
That she the truest shepherd's heart made bleed
That lives on earth, and loved her most dear.

Hobbinoll

O careful Colin, I lament thy case!
Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow.
Ah faithless Rosalind, and void of grace,
That art the root of all this ruthful woe!
But now is time, I guess, homeward to go:
Then rise, ye blessed flocks, and home apace,
Lest night with stealing steps do you forslow
And wet your tender lambs, that by you trace.