Eclogue, An: Made Long Since upon the Death of Sir Philip Sidney
MADE LONG SINCE UPON THE DEATH OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. THENOT. PERIN. THENOT .
Perin areed what new mischance betide,
Hath reft thee of thy wonted merriment?
Fair feeds thy flock this pleasant spring beside;
Nor love, I ween, hath made thee discontent,
Sild age and love do meet in one consent.
PERIN .
Ah, Thenot! where the joy of heart doth fail,
What marvel there, if mirth and music quail?
See how the flow'rets of the field do spring!
The purple rose, the lily white as snow,
With smell and colour for an harvest king,
May serve to make us young again, I trow:
Yet all this pride is quickly laid full low:
Soon as the root is nipt with northern cold,
What smell, or beauty, can we then behold?
THENOT .
As good not hear, as heard, not understand:
My borrell brains through eld been all too dull,
Sike mister meaning nill by me be scanned,
All as my face, so wrinkled is my skull.
Then say me, Perin, by thy hope of wull,
And by thine ewes' blown bags, and bagpipes' sound,
So not one aneling in thy flock be found.
PERIN .
An, Thenot! by thine alderliefest lass,
Or whatsoever is more dear to thee,
No bagpipe name; let song and solace pass;
Death hath undone my flock, my pipe and me;
Dead is the sheep's delight, and shepherd's glee;
Broke is my pipe, and I myself forlorn;
My sheep unfed, their fleeces rent and torn.
THENOT .
I mickle mused such uncouth change to see:
My flocks refused to feed, yet hale they were;
The tender birds sat drooping on the tree;
The careless lambs went wand'ring here and there;
Myself unknown a part of grief did bear:
Nor wist I why, yet heavy was my heart,
Untimely death was cause of all this smart.
Up, Perin, up, advance thy mournful lays;
Sound loud thy pipe, but sound in doleful wise.
PERIN .
Who else but Thenot can the Muses raise,
And teach them sing and dance in mournful guise?
My finger's stiff, — my voice doth hoarsely rise.
THENOT .
Ah! where is Colin, and his passing skill?
For him it fits our sorrow to fulfil.
PERIN .
Tway sore extremes our Colin press so near:
Alas that such extremes should press him so!
The want of wealth, and loss of love so dear:
Scarce can he breathe from under heaps of woe:
He that bears heaven, bears no such weight, I trow.
THENOT .
Hath he such skill in making all above,
And hath no skill to get, or wealth, or love?
PERIN .
Praise is the greatest prize that Poets gain,
A simple gain that feeds them ne'er a whit.
The wanton lass for whom he bare such pain,
Like running water loves to change and flit.
But if thee list to hear a sorry fit,
Which Cuddy could in doleful verse indite,
Blow thou thy pipe, while I the same recite.
THENOT .
'Gin when thou list, all-be my skill but small,
My forward mind shall make amends for all.
PERIN .
Ye nymphs that bathe your bodies in this spring,
Your tender bodies, white as driven snow;
Ye virgins chaste which in this grove do sing,
Which neither grief of love, nor death do know:
So may your streams run clear for aye!
So may your trees give shade alway!
Depart a space,
And give me place
To wail with grief my restless woe alone;
For fear my cries
Constrain your eyes
To shed forth tears, and help lament my moan.
And thou, my Muse, that whilom wont to ease
Thy master's mind with lays of sweet delight,
Now change those tunes, no joy my heart can please:
Gone is the day, come is the darksome night,
Our sun close hid in clouds doth lie:
We live, indeed; but living die.
No light we see,
Yet wander we;
We wander far and near without a guide:
And all astray
We lose our way,
For in this world n'is such a sun beside.
Ye shepherds' boys that lead your flocks afield
The whilst your sheep feed safely round about,
Break me your pipes that pleasant sound did yield;
Sing now no more the songs of Colin Clout.
Lament the end of all our joy,
Lament the source of all annoy.
Willy is dead,
That wont to lead
Our flocks and us in mirth and shepherds' glee:
Well could he sing,
Well dance and spring;
Of all the shepherds was none such as he.
How often hath his skill in pleasant song
Drawn all the water nymphs from out their bow'rs?
How have they lain the tender grass along,
And made him garlands gay of smelling flow'rs!
Phaebus himself, that conquered Pan,
Striving with Willy, nothing wan.
Methinks I see
The time when he
Plucked from his golden locks the laurel crown;
And so to raise
Our Willy's praise,
Bedecked his head, and softly set him down.
The learned Muses flocked to hear his skill
And quite forgot their water, wood, and mount;
They thought his songs were done too quickly still;
Of none but Willy's pipe they made account.
He sang, they seemed in joy to flow;
He ceased, they seemed to weep for woe.
The rural rout,
All round about,
Like bees came swarming thick to hear him sing;
Ne could they think
On meat or drink
While Willy's music in their ears did ring.
But now, alas! such pleasant mirth is past!
Apollo weeps, the Muses rend their hair;
No joy on earth that any time can last:
See where his breathless corpse lies on the bier!
That selfsame hand that reft his life
Hath turned shepherds' peace to strife.
Our joy is fled,
Our life is dead,
Our hope, our help, our glory all is gone;
Our poet's praise,
Our happy days,
And nothing left but grief to think thereon.
What Thames, what Severn, or what western seas,
Shall give me floods of trickling tears to shed?
What comfort can my restless grief appease?
Oh that mine eyes were fountains in my head!
Ah, Colin, I lament thy case:
For thee remains no hope of grace.
The best relief
Of Poet's grief
Is dead and wrapped full cold in filthy clay;
And nought remains
To ease our pains,
But hope of death to rid us hence away.
Phillis, thine is the greatest grief, above the rest.
Where bin thy sweetest posies featly dight,
Thy garlands with a true love's knot addrest,
And all that erst thou Willy didst behight?
Thy labour all is lost in vain;
The grief whereof shall aye remain.
The sun so bright
That falls to-night,
To-morrow from the East again shall rise;
But we decay
And waste away,
Without return: alas! thy Willy dies.
See how the drooping flocks refuse to feed!
The rivers stream with tears above the banks;
The trees do shed their leaves, to wail agreed;
The beasts, unfed, go mourning all in ranks;
The sun denies the earth his light;
The spring is killed with winter's might;
The flowers spill,
The birds are still,
No voice of joy is heard in any place;
The meadows green
A change have seen,
And Flora hides her pale disfigured face.
Watch now, ye shepherds' boys, with waking eye,
And lose your time of sleep to learn to sing.
Unhappy skill, what good is got thereby
But painted praise that can no profit bring?
If skill could move the Sisters three,
Our Willy still alive should be.
The wolf so wood
Amazed stood
At sound of Willy's pipe, and left his prey.
Both pipe and skill
The Sisters spill:
So worse than any wicked wolf are they.
O flatt'ring hope of mortal men's delight!
So fair in outward show, so foul within:
The deepest streams do flow full calm to sight;
The rav'ning wolves do jet in wether's skin.
We deemed our Willy aye should live,
So sweet a sound his pipe could give.
But cruel death
Hath stopped his breath:
Dumb lies his pipe that wont so sweet to sound:
Our flocks lament
His life is spent,
And careless wander all the woods around.
" Come now, ye shepherds' daughters, come no more
To hear the songs that Cuddy wont to sing:
Hoarse is my Muse, my throat with crying sore;
These woods with echo of my grief do ring.
Your Willy's life was Cuddy's joy;
Your Willy's death hath killed the boy:
Broke lies my pipe
Till reeds be ripe
To make a new one, but a worse I fear:
Save year by year
To wail my dear,
All pipe and song I utterly forswear. "
THENOT .
Alack and well-a-day! may shepherds cry,
Our Willy dead, our Colin killed with care!
Who shall not loathe to live, and long to die?
And will not grief our little Cuddy spare,
But must he too of sorrow have a share?
Aye how his rueful verse hath pricked my heart!
How feelingly hath he expressed our smart!
PERIN .
Ah, Thenot! hadst thou seen his sorry look,
His wringed hands, his eyes to heaven upkest,
His tears that streamed like water in the brook,
His sighs, that made his rhymes seem rudely drest.
But hie we homeward; night approacheth near,
And rainy clouds in southern skies appear.
Perin areed what new mischance betide,
Hath reft thee of thy wonted merriment?
Fair feeds thy flock this pleasant spring beside;
Nor love, I ween, hath made thee discontent,
Sild age and love do meet in one consent.
PERIN .
Ah, Thenot! where the joy of heart doth fail,
What marvel there, if mirth and music quail?
See how the flow'rets of the field do spring!
The purple rose, the lily white as snow,
With smell and colour for an harvest king,
May serve to make us young again, I trow:
Yet all this pride is quickly laid full low:
Soon as the root is nipt with northern cold,
What smell, or beauty, can we then behold?
THENOT .
As good not hear, as heard, not understand:
My borrell brains through eld been all too dull,
Sike mister meaning nill by me be scanned,
All as my face, so wrinkled is my skull.
Then say me, Perin, by thy hope of wull,
And by thine ewes' blown bags, and bagpipes' sound,
So not one aneling in thy flock be found.
PERIN .
An, Thenot! by thine alderliefest lass,
Or whatsoever is more dear to thee,
No bagpipe name; let song and solace pass;
Death hath undone my flock, my pipe and me;
Dead is the sheep's delight, and shepherd's glee;
Broke is my pipe, and I myself forlorn;
My sheep unfed, their fleeces rent and torn.
THENOT .
I mickle mused such uncouth change to see:
My flocks refused to feed, yet hale they were;
The tender birds sat drooping on the tree;
The careless lambs went wand'ring here and there;
Myself unknown a part of grief did bear:
Nor wist I why, yet heavy was my heart,
Untimely death was cause of all this smart.
Up, Perin, up, advance thy mournful lays;
Sound loud thy pipe, but sound in doleful wise.
PERIN .
Who else but Thenot can the Muses raise,
And teach them sing and dance in mournful guise?
My finger's stiff, — my voice doth hoarsely rise.
THENOT .
Ah! where is Colin, and his passing skill?
For him it fits our sorrow to fulfil.
PERIN .
Tway sore extremes our Colin press so near:
Alas that such extremes should press him so!
The want of wealth, and loss of love so dear:
Scarce can he breathe from under heaps of woe:
He that bears heaven, bears no such weight, I trow.
THENOT .
Hath he such skill in making all above,
And hath no skill to get, or wealth, or love?
PERIN .
Praise is the greatest prize that Poets gain,
A simple gain that feeds them ne'er a whit.
The wanton lass for whom he bare such pain,
Like running water loves to change and flit.
But if thee list to hear a sorry fit,
Which Cuddy could in doleful verse indite,
Blow thou thy pipe, while I the same recite.
THENOT .
'Gin when thou list, all-be my skill but small,
My forward mind shall make amends for all.
PERIN .
Ye nymphs that bathe your bodies in this spring,
Your tender bodies, white as driven snow;
Ye virgins chaste which in this grove do sing,
Which neither grief of love, nor death do know:
So may your streams run clear for aye!
So may your trees give shade alway!
Depart a space,
And give me place
To wail with grief my restless woe alone;
For fear my cries
Constrain your eyes
To shed forth tears, and help lament my moan.
And thou, my Muse, that whilom wont to ease
Thy master's mind with lays of sweet delight,
Now change those tunes, no joy my heart can please:
Gone is the day, come is the darksome night,
Our sun close hid in clouds doth lie:
We live, indeed; but living die.
No light we see,
Yet wander we;
We wander far and near without a guide:
And all astray
We lose our way,
For in this world n'is such a sun beside.
Ye shepherds' boys that lead your flocks afield
The whilst your sheep feed safely round about,
Break me your pipes that pleasant sound did yield;
Sing now no more the songs of Colin Clout.
Lament the end of all our joy,
Lament the source of all annoy.
Willy is dead,
That wont to lead
Our flocks and us in mirth and shepherds' glee:
Well could he sing,
Well dance and spring;
Of all the shepherds was none such as he.
How often hath his skill in pleasant song
Drawn all the water nymphs from out their bow'rs?
How have they lain the tender grass along,
And made him garlands gay of smelling flow'rs!
Phaebus himself, that conquered Pan,
Striving with Willy, nothing wan.
Methinks I see
The time when he
Plucked from his golden locks the laurel crown;
And so to raise
Our Willy's praise,
Bedecked his head, and softly set him down.
The learned Muses flocked to hear his skill
And quite forgot their water, wood, and mount;
They thought his songs were done too quickly still;
Of none but Willy's pipe they made account.
He sang, they seemed in joy to flow;
He ceased, they seemed to weep for woe.
The rural rout,
All round about,
Like bees came swarming thick to hear him sing;
Ne could they think
On meat or drink
While Willy's music in their ears did ring.
But now, alas! such pleasant mirth is past!
Apollo weeps, the Muses rend their hair;
No joy on earth that any time can last:
See where his breathless corpse lies on the bier!
That selfsame hand that reft his life
Hath turned shepherds' peace to strife.
Our joy is fled,
Our life is dead,
Our hope, our help, our glory all is gone;
Our poet's praise,
Our happy days,
And nothing left but grief to think thereon.
What Thames, what Severn, or what western seas,
Shall give me floods of trickling tears to shed?
What comfort can my restless grief appease?
Oh that mine eyes were fountains in my head!
Ah, Colin, I lament thy case:
For thee remains no hope of grace.
The best relief
Of Poet's grief
Is dead and wrapped full cold in filthy clay;
And nought remains
To ease our pains,
But hope of death to rid us hence away.
Phillis, thine is the greatest grief, above the rest.
Where bin thy sweetest posies featly dight,
Thy garlands with a true love's knot addrest,
And all that erst thou Willy didst behight?
Thy labour all is lost in vain;
The grief whereof shall aye remain.
The sun so bright
That falls to-night,
To-morrow from the East again shall rise;
But we decay
And waste away,
Without return: alas! thy Willy dies.
See how the drooping flocks refuse to feed!
The rivers stream with tears above the banks;
The trees do shed their leaves, to wail agreed;
The beasts, unfed, go mourning all in ranks;
The sun denies the earth his light;
The spring is killed with winter's might;
The flowers spill,
The birds are still,
No voice of joy is heard in any place;
The meadows green
A change have seen,
And Flora hides her pale disfigured face.
Watch now, ye shepherds' boys, with waking eye,
And lose your time of sleep to learn to sing.
Unhappy skill, what good is got thereby
But painted praise that can no profit bring?
If skill could move the Sisters three,
Our Willy still alive should be.
The wolf so wood
Amazed stood
At sound of Willy's pipe, and left his prey.
Both pipe and skill
The Sisters spill:
So worse than any wicked wolf are they.
O flatt'ring hope of mortal men's delight!
So fair in outward show, so foul within:
The deepest streams do flow full calm to sight;
The rav'ning wolves do jet in wether's skin.
We deemed our Willy aye should live,
So sweet a sound his pipe could give.
But cruel death
Hath stopped his breath:
Dumb lies his pipe that wont so sweet to sound:
Our flocks lament
His life is spent,
And careless wander all the woods around.
" Come now, ye shepherds' daughters, come no more
To hear the songs that Cuddy wont to sing:
Hoarse is my Muse, my throat with crying sore;
These woods with echo of my grief do ring.
Your Willy's life was Cuddy's joy;
Your Willy's death hath killed the boy:
Broke lies my pipe
Till reeds be ripe
To make a new one, but a worse I fear:
Save year by year
To wail my dear,
All pipe and song I utterly forswear. "
THENOT .
Alack and well-a-day! may shepherds cry,
Our Willy dead, our Colin killed with care!
Who shall not loathe to live, and long to die?
And will not grief our little Cuddy spare,
But must he too of sorrow have a share?
Aye how his rueful verse hath pricked my heart!
How feelingly hath he expressed our smart!
PERIN .
Ah, Thenot! hadst thou seen his sorry look,
His wringed hands, his eyes to heaven upkest,
His tears that streamed like water in the brook,
His sighs, that made his rhymes seem rudely drest.
But hie we homeward; night approacheth near,
And rainy clouds in southern skies appear.
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