Complete Works of Edmund Spenser Page 12

  For what might be in earthlie mould,

  That did her buried body hould.

  O heavie herse! 160

  Yet saw I on the beare when it was brought.

  O carefull verse!

  But maugre Death, and dreaded sisters deadly spight,

  And gates of Hel, and fyrie furies forse,

  She hath the bonds broke of eternall night, 165

  Her soule unbodied of the burdenous corpse.

  Why then weepes Lobbin so without remorse?

  O Lobb! thy losse no longer lament;

  Dido nis dead, but into heaven hent.

  O happye herse! 170

  Cease now, my Muse, now cease thy sorrowes sourse:

  O joyfull verse!

  Why wayle we then? why weary we the gods with playnts,

  As if some evill were to her betight?

  She raignes a goddesse now emong the saintes, 175

  That whilome was the saynt of shepheards light:

  And is enstalled nowe in heavens hight.

  I see thee, blessed soule, I see,

  Walke in Elisian fieldes so free.

  O happy herse! 180

  Might I one come to thee! O that I might!

  O joyfull verse!

  Unwise and wretched men, to weete whats good or ill,

  Wee deeme of death as doome of ill desert:

  But knewe we, fooles, what it us bringes until, 185

  Dye would we dayly, once it to expert.

  No daunger there the shepheard can astert:

  Fayre fieldes and pleasaunt layes there bene,

  The fieldes ay fresh, the grasse ay greene:

  O happy herse! 190

  Make hast, ye shepheards, thether to revert:

  O joyfull verse!

  Dido is gone afore (whose turne shall be the next?)

  There lives shee with the blessed gods in blisse,

  There drincks she nectar with ambrosia mixt, 195

  And joyes enjoyes that mortall men doe misse.

  The honor now of highest gods she is,

  That whilome was poore shepheards pryde,

  While here on earth she did abyde.

  O happy herse! 200

  Ceasse now, my song, my woe now wasted is.

  O joyfull verse!

  The. Ay, francke shepheard, how bene thy verses meint

  With doolful pleasaunce, so as I ne wotte

  Whether rejoyce or weepe for great constrainte! 205

  Thyne be the cossette, well hast thow it gotte.

  Up, Colin, up, ynough thou morned hast:

  Now gynnes to mizzle, hye we homeward fast.

  COLINS EMBLEME.

  La mort ny mord.

  GLOSSE

  Jouisaunce, myrth.

  Sovenaunce, remembraunce.

  Herie, honour.

  Welked, shortned, or empayred. As the moone being in the waine is sayde of Lidgate to welk.

  In lowly lay, according to the season of the moneth November, when the sonne draweth low in the south toward his tropick or returne.

  In Fishes haske. The sonne reigneth, that is, in the signe Pisces all November. A haske is a wicker pad. wherein they use to cary fish.

  Virelaies, a light kind of song.

  Bee watred. For it is a saying of poetes, that they have dronk of the Muses well Castalias, whereof was before sufficiently sayd.

  Dreriment, dreery and heavy cheere.

  The great shepheard is some man of high degree, and not, as some vainely suppose, God Pan. The person both of the shephearde and of Dido is unknowen, and closely buried in the authors conceipt. But out of doubt I am, that it is not Rosalind, as some imagin: for he speaketh soone after of her also.

  Shene, fayre and shining.

  May, for mayde.

  Tene, sorrow.

  Guerdon, reward.

  Bynempt, bequethed.

  Cosset, a lambe brought up without the dam.

  Unkempt, incompti; not comed, that is, rude and unhansome.

  Melpomene, the sadde and waylefull Muse, used of poets in honor of tragedies: as saith Virgile,

  ‘Melpomene tragico proclamat mæsta boatu.’

  Up griesly gosts, the maner of tragicall poetes, to call for helpe of furies and damned ghostes: so is Hecuba of Euripides, and Tantalus brought in of Seneca; and the rest of the rest.

  Herse is the solemne obsequie in funeralles.

  Wast of, decay of so beautifull a peece.

  Carke, care.

  Ah why, an elegant epanorthosis, as also soone after: nay, time was long ago.

  Flouret, a diminutive for a little floure. This is a notable and sententious comparison ‘A minore ad majus.’

  Reliven not, live not againe, sc. not in theyr earthly bodies: for in heaven they enjoy their due reward.

  The braunch. He meaneth Dido, who being, as it were, the mayne braunch now withered, the buddes, that is, beautie (as he sayd afore) can no more flourish.

  With cakes, fit for shepheards bankets.

  Heame, for home: after the northerne pronouncing.

  Tinct, deyed or stayned.

  The gaudie. The meaning is, that the things which were the ornaments of her lyfe are made the honor of her funerall, as is used in burialls.

  Lobbin, the name of a shepherd, which seemeth to have bene the lover and deere frende of Dido.

  Rushrings, agreeable for such base gyftes.

  Faded lockes, dryed leaves. As if Nature her selfe bewayled the death of the mayde.

  Sourse, spring.

  Mantled medowes, for the sondry flowres are like a mantle or coverlet wrought with many colours.

  Philomele, the nightingale: whome the poetes faine once to have bene a ladye of great beauty, till, being ravished by hir sisters husbande, she desired to be turned into a byrd of her name. Whose complaintes be very well set forth of Maister George Gaskin, a wittie gentleman, and the very chefe of our late rymers, who, and if some partes of learning wanted not (albee it is well knowen he altogyther wanted not learning) no doubt would have attayned to the excellencye of those famous poets. For gifts of wit and naturall promptnesse appeare in hym aboundantly.

  Cypresse, used of the old paynims in the furnishing of their funerall pompe, and properly the signe of all sorow and heavinesse.

  The fatall sisters, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, daughters of Herebus and the Nighte, whom the poetes fayne to spinne the life of man, as it were a long threde, which they drawe out in length, till his fatal howre and timely death be come; but if by other casualtie his dayes be abridged, then one of them, that is, Atropos, is sayde to have cut the threde in twain. Hereof commeth a common verse.

  ‘Clotho colum bajulat, Lachesis trahit, Atropos occat.’

  O trustlesse, a gallant exclamation, moralized with great wisedom, and passionate wyth great affection.

  Beare, a frame, wheron they use to lay the dead corse.

  Furies, of poetes be feyned to be three, Persephone, Alecto, and Megera, which are sayd to be the authours of all evill and mischiefe.

  Eternall night is death or darknesse of hell.

  Betight, happened.

  I see, a lively icon or representation, as if he saw her in heaven present.

  Elysian fieldes be devised of poetes to be a place of pleasure like Paradise, where the happye soules doe rest in peace and eternal happynesse.

  Dye would, the very expresse saying of Plato in Phædone.

  Astert, befall unwares.

  Nectar and ambrosia be feigned to be the drink and foode of the gods: ambrosia they liken to manna in scripture, and nectar to be white like creme, whereof is a proper tale of Hebe, that spilt a cup of it, and stayned the heavens, as yet appeareth. But I have already discoursed that at large in my Commentarye upon the Dreames of the same authour.

  Meynt, mingled.

  EMBLEME.

  Which is as much to say as, death biteth not. For although by course of nature we be borne to dye, and being ripened with age, as with a timely harvest, we must b
e gathered in time, or els of our selves we fall like rotted ripe fruite fro the tree: yet death is not to be counted for evill, nor (as the poete sayd a little before) as doome of ill desert. For though the trespasse of the first man brought death into the world, as the guerdon of sinne, yet being overcome by the death of one that dyed for al, it is now made (as Chaucer sayth) the grene path way to life. So that it agreeth well with that was sayd, that Death byteth not (that is) hurteth not at all.

  December

  ÆGLOGA DUODECIMA

  ARGUMENT

  THIS Æglogue (even as the first beganne) is ended with a complaynte of Colin to God Pan: wherein, as weary of his former wayes, he proportioneth his life to the foure seasons of the yeare, comparing hys youthe to the spring time, when he was fresh and free from loves follye; his manhoode to the sommer, which, he sayth, was consumed with greate heate and excessive drouth, caused throughe a comet or blasinge starre, by which hee meaneth love, which passion is comenly compared to such flames and immoderate heate; his riper yeares hee resembleth to an unseasonable harveste, wherein the fruites fall ere they be rype; his latter age to winters chyll and frostie season, now drawing neare to his last ende.

  THE GENTLE shepheard satte beside a springe,

  All in the shadowe of a bushye brere,

  That Colin hight, which wel could pype and singe,

  For he of Tityrus his songs did lere.

  There as he satte in secreate shade alone, 5

  Thus gan he make of love his piteous mone.

  ‘O soveraigne Pan, thou god of shepheards all,

  Which of our tender lambkins takest keepe,

  And when our flocks into mischaunce mought fall,

  Doest save from mischiefe the unwary sheepe, 10

  Als of their maisters hast no lesse regard

  Then of the flocks, which thou doest watch and ward:

  ‘I thee beseche (so be thou deigne to heare

  Rude ditties, tund to shepheards oaten reede,

  Or if I ever sonet song so cleare 15

  As it with pleasaunce mought thy fancie feede)

  Hearken awhile, from thy greene cabinet,

  The rurall song of carefull Colinet.

  ‘Whilome in youth, when flowrd my joyfull spring,

  Like swallow swift I wandred here and there: 20

  For heate of heedlesse lust me so did sting,

  That I of doubted daunger had no feare.

  I went the wastefull woodes and forest wyde,

  Withouten dreade of wolves to bene espyed.

  ‘I wont to raunge amydde the mazie thickette, 25

  And gather nuttes to make me Christmas game;

  And joyed oft to chace the trembling pricket,

  Or hunt the hartlesse hare til shee were tame.

  What recked I of wintrye ages waste?

  Tho deemed I, my spring would ever laste. 30

  ‘How often have I scaled the craggie oke,

  All to dislodge the raven of her nest!

  Howe have I wearied, with many a stroke,

  The stately walnut tree, the while the rest

  Under the tree fell all for nuts at strife! 35

  For ylike to me was libertee and lyfe.

  ‘And for I was in thilke same looser yeares,

  (Whether the Muse so wrought me from my birth,

  Or I to much beleeved my shepherd peres,)

  Somedele ybent to song and musicks mirth, 40

  A good olde shephearde, Wrenock was his name,

  Made me by arte more cunning in the same.

  ‘Fro thence I durst in derring doe compare

  With shepheards swayne what ever fedde in field:

  And if that Hobbinol right judgement bare, 45

  To Pan his owne selfe pype I neede not yield:

  For if the flocking nymphes did folow Pan,

  The wiser Muses after Colin ranne.

  ‘But ah! such pryde at length was ill repayde:

  The shepheards god (perdie, god was he none) 50

  My hurtlesse pleasaunce did me ill upbraide;

  My freedome lorne, my life he lefte to mone.

  Love they him called that gave me checkmate,

  But better mought they have behote him Hate.

  ‘Tho gan my lovely spring bid me farewel, 55

  And sommer season sped him to display

  (For Love then in the Lyons house did dwell)

  The raging fyre that kindled at his ray.

  A comett stird up that unkindly heate,

  That reigned (as men sayd) in Venus seate. 60

  ‘Forth was I ledde, not as I wont afore,

  When choise I had to choose my wandring waye,

  But whether Luck and Loves unbridled lore

  Would leade me forth on Fancies bitte to playe.

  The bush my bedde, the bramble was my bowre, 65

  The woodes can witnesse many a wofull stowre.

  ‘Where I was wont to seeke the honey bee,

  Working her formall rowmes in wexen frame,

  The grieslie todestoole growne there mought I se,

  And loathed paddocks lording on the same: 70

  And where the chaunting birds luld me a sleepe,

  The ghastlie owle her grievous ynne doth keepe.

  ‘Then as the springe gives place to elder time,

  And bringeth forth the fruite of sommers pryde,

  Also my age, now passed youngthly pryme, 75

  To thinges of ryper reason selfe applyed,

  And learnd of lighter timber cotes to frame,

  Such as might save my sheepe and me fro shame.

  ‘To make fine cages for the nightingale,

  And baskets of bulrushes, was my wont: 80

  Who to entrappe the fish in winding sale

  Was better seene, or hurtful beastes to hont?

  I learned als the signes of heaven to ken,

  How Phœbe fayles, where Venus sittes and when.

  ‘And tryed time yet taught me greater thinges: 85

  The sodain rysing of the raging seas,

  The soothe of byrds by beating of their wings,

  The power of herbs, both which can hurt and ease,

  And which be wont tenrage the restlesse sheepe,

  And which be wont to worke eternall sleepe. 90

  ‘But ah, unwise and witlesse Colin Cloute!

  That kydst the hidden kinds of many a wede,

  Yet kydst not ene to cure thy sore hart roote,

  Whose ranckling wound as yet does rifelye bleede!

  Why livest thou stil, and yet hast thy deathes wound? 95

  Why dyest thou stil, and yet alive art founde?

  ‘Thus is my sommer worne away and wasted,

  Thus is my harvest hastened all to rathe:

  The eare that budded faire is burnt and blasted,

  And all my hoped gaine is turnd to scathe. 100

  Of all the seede that in my youth was sowne,

  Was nought but brakes and brambles to be mowne.

  ‘My boughes with bloosmes that crowned were at firste,

  And promised of timely fruite such store,

  Are left both bare and barrein now at erst: 105

  The flattring fruite is fallen to grownd before,

  And rotted ere they were halfe mellow ripe:

  My harvest, wast, my hope away dyd wipe.

  ‘The fragrant flowres that in my garden grewe

  Bene withered, as they had bene gathered long: 110

  Theyr rootes bene dryed up for lacke of dewe,

  Yet dewed with teares they han be ever among.

  Ah! who has wrought my Rosalind this spight,

  To spil the flowres that should her girlond dight?

  ‘And I, that whilome wont to frame my pype 115

  Unto the shifting of the shepheards foote,

  Sike follies nowe have gathered as too ripe,

  And cast hem out as rotten and unsoote.

  The loser lasse I cast to please nomore:

  One if I
please, enough is me therefore. 120

  ‘And thus of all my harvest hope I have

  Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care:

  Which, when I thought have thresht in swelling sheave,

  Cockel for corne, and chaffe for barley, bare.

  Soone as the chaffe should in the fan be fynd, 125

  All was blowne away of the wavering wynd.

  ‘So now my yeare drawes to his latter terme,

  My spring is spent, my sommer burnt up quite,

  My harveste hasts to stirre up Winter sterne,

  And bids him clayme with rigorous rage hys right: 130

  So nowe he stormes with many a sturdy stoure,

  So now his blustring blast eche coste doth scoure.

  ‘The carefull cold hath nypt my rugged rynde,

  And in my face deepe furrowes eld hath pight:

  My head besprent with hoary frost I fynd, 135

  And by myne eie the crow his clawe dooth wright.

  Delight is layd abedde, and pleasure past;

  No sonne now shines, cloudes han all overcast.

  ‘Now leave, ye shepheards boyes, your merry glee;

  My Muse is hoarse and weary of thys stounde: 140

  Here will I hang my pype upon this tree;

  Was never pype of reede did better sounde.

  Winter is come, that blowes the bitter blaste,

  And after winter dreerie death does hast.

  ‘Gather ye together, my little flocke, 145

  My little flock, that was to me so liefe:

  Let me, ah! lette me in your folds ye lock,

  Ere the breme winter breede you greater griefe.

  Winter is come, that blowes the balefull breath,

  And after winter commeth timely death. 150

  ‘Adieu, delightes, that lulled me asleepe;

  Adieu, my deare, whose love I bought so deare;

  Adieu, my little lambes and loved sheepe;

  Adieu, ye woodes, that oft my witnesse were;

  Adieu, good Hobbinol, that was so true: 155

  Tell Rosalind her Colin bids her adieu.’

  COLINS EMBLEME.

  [Vivitur ingenio: cætera mortis erunt.]

  GLOSSE

  Tityrus, Chaucer, as hath bene oft sayd.

  Lambkins, young lambes.

  Als of their semeth to expresse Virgils verse.

  ‘Pan curat oves oviumque magistros.’

  Deigne, voutchsafe.

  Cabinet, Colinet, diminutives.

  Mazie: For they be like to a maze whence it is hard to get out agayne.

  Peres felowes and companions.

  Musick, that is poetry, as Terence sayth, ‘Qui artem tractant musicam,’ speking of poetes.