Complete Works of Edmund Spenser Page 9
Wil. The while the shepheard selfe did spill; 60
Per. I saw the bouncing Bellibone,
Wil. Hey ho, bonibell!
Per. Tripping over the dale alone;
Wil. She can trippe it very well:
Per. Well decked in a frocke of gray, 65
Wil. Hey ho, gray is greete!
Per. And in a kirtle of greene saye;
Wil. The greene is for maydens meete.
Per. A chapelet on her head she wore,
Wil. Hey ho, chapelet! 70
Per. Of sweete violets therein was store,
Wil. She sweeter then the violet.
Per. My sheepe did leave theyr wonted foode,
Wil. Hey ho, seely sheepe!
Per. And gazd on her, as they were wood, 75
Wil. Woode as he that did them keepe.
Per. As the bonilasse passed bye,
Wil. Hey ho, bonilasse!
Per. She rovde at me with glauncing eye,
Wil. As cleare as the christall glasse: 80
Per. All as the sunnye beame so bright,
Wil. Hey ho, the sunne beame!
Per. Glaunceth from Phoebus face forth-right,
Wil. So love into thy hart did streame:
Per. Or as the thonder cleaves the cloudes, 85
Wil. Hey ho, the thonder!
Per. Wherein the lightsome levin shroudes,
Wil. So cleaves thy soule a sonder:
Per. Or as Dame Cynthias silver raye,
Wil. Hey ho, the moonelight! 90
Per. Upon the glyttering wave doth playe:
Wil. Such play is a pitteous plight.
Per. The glaunce into my heart did glide,
Wil. Hey ho, the glyder!
Per. Therewith my soule was sharply gryde: 95
Wil. Such woundes soone wexen wider.
Per. Hasting to raunch the arrow out,
Wil. Hey ho, Perigot!
Per. I left the head in my hart roote:
Wil. It was a desperate shot. 100
Per. There it ranckleth ay more and more,
Wil. Hey ho, the arrowe!
Per. Ne can I find salve for my sore:
Wil. Love is a curelesse sorrowe.
Per. And though my bale with death I bought, 105
Wil. Hey ho, heavie cheere!
Per. Yet should thilk lasse not from my thought:
Wil. So you may buye gold to deare.
Per. But whether in paynefull love I pyne,
Wil. Hey ho, pinching payne! 110
Per. Or thrive in welth, she shalbe mine:
Wil. But if thou can her obteine.
Per. And if for gracelesse greefe I dye,
Wil. Hey ho, gracelesse griefe!
Per. Witnesse, shee slewe me with her eye: 115
Wil. Let thy follye be the priefe.
Per. And you, that sawe it, simple shepe,
Wil. Hey ho, the fayre flocke!
Per. For priefe thereof, my death shall weepe,
Wil. And mone with many a mocke. 120
Per. So learnd I love on a hollye eve,
Wil. Hey ho, holidaye!
Per. That ever since my hart did greve.
Wil. Now endeth our roundelay.
Cud. Sicker, sike a roundle never heard I none. 125
Little lacketh Perigot of the best,
And Willye is not greatly overgone,
So weren his undersongs well addrest.
Wil. Herdgrome, I fear me thou have a squint eye:
Areede uprightly, who has the victorye? 130
Cud. Fayth of my soule, I deeme ech have gayned.
Forthy let the lambe be Willye his owne;
And for Perigot so well hath hym payned,
To him be the wroughten mazer alone.
Per. Perigot is well pleased with the doome, 135
Ne can Willye wite the witelesse herdgroome.
Wil. Never dempt more right of beautye, I weene,
The shepheard of Ida that judged beauties queene.
Cud. But tell me, shepherds, should it not yshend
Your roundels fresh to heare a doolefull verse 140
Of Rosalend, (who knowes not Rosalend?)
That Colin made, ylke can I you rehearse.
Per. Now say it, Cuddie, as thou art a ladde:
With mery thing its good to medle sadde.
Wil. Fayth of my soule, thou shalt ycrouned be 145
In Colins stede, if thou this song areede:
For never thing on earth so pleaseth me
As him to heare, or matter of his deede.
Cud. Then listneth ech unto my heavy laye,
And tune your pypes as ruthful as ye may. 150
‘Ye wastefull woodes beare witnesse of my woe,
Wherein my plaints did oftentimes resound:
Ye carelesse byrds are privie to my cryes,
Which in your songs were wont to make a part:
Thou pleasaunt spring hast luld me oft a sleepe, 155
Whose streames my tricklinge teares did ofte augment.
‘Resort of people doth my greefs augment,
The walled townes do worke my greater woe:
The forest wide is fitter to resound
The hollow echo of my carefull cryes: 160
I hate the house, since thence my love did part,
Whose waylefull want debarres myne eyes from sleepe.
‘Let stremes of teares supply the place of sleepe:
Let all, that sweete is, voyd: and all that may augment
My doole drawe neare. More meete to wayle my woe 165
Bene the wild woddes, my sorrowes to resound,
Then bedde, or bowre, both which I fill with cryes,
When I them see so waist, and fynd no part
‘Of pleasure past. Here will I dwell apart
In gastfull grove therefore, till my last sleepe 170
Doe close mine eyes: so shall I not augment,
With sight of such a chaunge, my restlesse woe.
Helpe me, ye banefull byrds, whose shrieking sound
Ys signe of dreery death, my deadly cryes
‘Most ruthfully to tune. And as my cryes 175
(Which of my woe cannot bewray least part)
You heare all night, when nature craveth sleepe,
Increase, so let your yrksome yells augment.
Thus all the night in plaints, the daye in woe
I vowed have to wayst, till safe and sound 180
‘She home returne, whose voyces silver sound
To cheerefull songs can chaunge my cherelesse cryes.
Hence with the nightingale will I take part,
That blessed byrd, that spends her time of sleepe
In songs and plaintive pleas, the more taugment 185
The memory of hys misdeede, that bred her woe.
‘And you that feele no woe, / when as the sound
Of these my nightly cryes / ye heare apart,
Let breake your sounder sleepe / and pitie augment.’
Per. O Colin, Colin, the shepheards joye, 190
How I admire ech turning of thy verse!
And Cuddie, fresh Cuddie, the liefest boye,
How dolefully his doole thou didst re-hearse!
Cud. Then blowe your pypes, shepheards, til you be at home:
The night nigheth fast, yts time to be gone.
PERIGOT HIS EMBLEME.
Vincenti gloria victi.
WILLYES EMBLEME.
Vinto non vitto.
CUDDIES EMBLEME.
Felice chi può.
GLOSSE
Bestadde, disposed, ordered.
Peregall, equall.
Whilome, once.
Rafte, bereft, deprived.
Miswent, gon a straye.
Ill may, according to Virgile.
‘Infelix o semper ovis pecus.’
A mazer. So also do Theocritus and Virgile feigne pledges of their strife.
Enchased, engraven. Such pretie descriptions every
where useth Theocritus to bring in his Idyllia. For which speciall cause, indede, he by that name termeth his Æglogues: for Idyllion in Greke signifieth the shape or picture of any thyng, wherof his booke is ful. And not, as I have heard some fondly guesse, that they be called not Idyllia, but Hædilia, of the gote-heards in them.
Entrailed, wrought betwene.
Harvest queene, the manner of country folke in harvest tyme.
Pousse, pease.
It fell upon. Perigot maketh hys song in prayse of his love, to whom Willy answereth every under verse. By Perigot who is meant, I can not uprightly say: but if it be who is supposed, his love deserveth no lesse prayse then he giveth her.
Greete, weeping and complaint.
Chaplet, a kind of garlond lyke a crowne.
Leven, lightning.
Cynthia was sayd to be the moone.
Gryde, perced.
But if, not unlesse.
Squint eye, partiall judgement.
Ech have, so saith Virgile,
‘Et vitula tu dignus, et hic,’ &c.
So by enterchaunge of gyfts Cuddie pleaseth both partes.
Doome, judgement.
Dempt, for deemed, judged.
Wite the witelesse, blame the blamelesse.
The shepherd of Ida was sayd to be Paris.
Beauties queene, Venus, to whome Paris adjudged the goldden apple, as the pryce of her beautie.
EMBLEME.
The meaning hereof is very ambiguous: for Perigot by his poesie claming the conquest, and Willye not yeelding, Cuddie the arbiter of theyr cause, and patron of his own, semeth to chalenge it, as his dew, saying, that he is happy which can, — so abruptly ending; but hee meaneth eyther him that can win the beste, or moderate him selfe being best, and leave of with the best.
September
ÆGLOGA NONA
ARGUMENT
HEREIN Diggon Davie is devised to be a shepheard that, in hope of more gayne, drove his sheepe into a farre countrye. The abuses whereof, and loose living of popish prelates, by occasion of Hobbinols demaund, he discourseth at large.
HOBBINOL. DIGGON DAVIE.
Hob. Diggon Davie, I bidde her god day:
Or Diggon her is, or I missaye.
Dig. Her was her while it was daye light,
But now her is a most wretched wight.
For day, that was, is wightly past, 5
And now at earst the dirke night doth hast.
Hob. Diggon, areede, who has thee so dight?
Never I wist thee in so poore a plight.
Where is the fayre flocke thou was wont to leade?
Or bene they chaffred? or at mischiefe dead? 10
Dig. Ah! for love of that is to thee moste leefe,
Hobbinol, I pray thee gall not my old griefe:
Sike question ripeth up cause of newe woe,
For one opened mote unfolde many moe.
Hob. Nay, but sorrow close shrouded in hart, 15
I know, to kepe is a burdenous smart.
Eche thing imparted is more eath to beare:
When the rayne is faln, the cloudes wexen cleare.
And nowe, sithence I sawe thy head last,
Thrise three moones bene fully spent and past: 20
Since when thou hast measured much grownd,
And wandred, I wene, about the world rounde,
So as thou can many thinges relate:
But tell me first of thy flocks astate.
Dig. My sheepe bene wasted, (wae is me therefore!) 25
The jolly shepheard that was of yore
Is nowe nor jollye, nor shepehearde more.
In forrein costes, men sayd, was plentye:
And so there is, but all of miserye.
I dempt there much to have eeked my store, 30
But such eeking hath made my hart sore.
In tho countryes whereas I have bene,
No being for those that truely mene,
But for such as of guile maken gayne,
No such countrye as there to remaine. 35
They setten to sale their shops of shame,
And maken a mart of theyr good name.
The shepheards there robben one another,
And layen baytes to beguile her brother.
Or they will buy his sheepe out of the cote, 40
Or they will carven the shepheards throte.
The shepheards swayne you cannot wel ken,
But it be by his pryde, from other men:
They looken bigge as bulls that bene bate,
And bearen the cragge so stiffe and so state 45
As cocke on his dunghill crowing cranck.
Hob. Diggon, I am so stiffe and so stanck,
That uneth may I stand any more:
And nowe the westerne wind bloweth sore,
That nowe is in his chiefe sovereigntee, 50
Beating the withered leafe from the tree.
Sitte we downe here under the hill:
Tho may we talke and tellen our fill,
And make a mocke at the blustring blast.
Now say on, Diggon, what ever thou hast. 55
Dig. Hobbin, ah, Hobbin! I curse the stounde
That ever I cast to have lorne this grounde.
Wel-away the while I was so fonde
To leave the good that I had in hande,
In hope of better, that was uncouth: 60
So lost the dogge the flesh in his mouth.
My seely sheepe (ah, seely sheepe!)
That here by there I whilome usd to keepe,
All were they lustye, as thou didst see,
Bene all sterved with pyne and penuree. 65
Hardly my selfe escaped thilke payne,
Driven for neede to come home agayne.
Hob. Ah, fon! now by thy losse art taught
That seeldome chaunge the better brought.
Content who lives with tryed state 70
Neede feare no chaunge of frowning fate;
But who will seeke for unknowne gayne,
Oft lives by losse, and leaves with payne.
Dig. I wote ne, Hobbin, how I was bewitcht
With vayne desyre and hope to be enricht; 75
But, sicker, so it is as the bright starre
Seemeth ay greater when it is farre.
I thought the soyle would have made me rich;
But nowe I wote it is nothing sich.
For eyther the shepeheards bene ydle and still, 80
And ledde of theyr sheepe what way they wyll,
Or they bene false, and full of covetise,
And casten to compasse many wrong emprise.
But the more bene fraight with fraud and spight,
Ne in good nor goodnes taken delight, 85
But kindle coales of conteck and yre,
Wherewith they sette all the world on fire:
Which when they thinken agayne to quench,
With holy water they doen hem all drench.
They saye they con to heaven the high way, 90
But, by my soule, I dare undersaye
They never sette foote in that same troade,
But balk the right way and strayen abroad.
They boast they han the devill at commaund,
But aske hem therefore what they han paund: 95
Marrie! that great Pan bought with deare borrow,
To quite it from the blacke bowre of sorrowe.
But they han sold thilk same long agoe:
Forthy woulden drawe with hem many moe.
But let hem gange alone a Gods name; 100
As they han brewed, so let hem beare blame.
Hob. Diggon, I praye thee speake not so dirke.
Such myster saying me seemeth to mirke.
Dig. Then, playnely to speake of shepheards most what,
Badde is the best (this English is flatt.) 105
Their ill haviour garres men missay
Both of their doctrine, and of their faye.
They sayne the world is much war then it wont,
All for her shepheards bene beastly and blont:
Other sayne, but how truely I note, 110
All for they holden shame of theyr cote.
Some sticke not to say, (whote cole on her tongue!)
That sike mischiefe graseth hem emong,
All for they casten too much of worlds care,
To deck her dame, and enrich her heyre: 115
For such encheason, if you goe nye,
Fewe chymneis reeking you shall espye:
The fatte oxe, that wont ligge in the stal,
Is nowe fast stalled in her crumenall.
Thus chatten the people in theyr steads, 120
Ylike as a monster of many heads:
But they that shooten neerest the pricke
Sayne, other the fat from their beards doen lick:
For bigge bulles of Basan brace hem about,
That with theyr hornes butten the more stoute; 125
But the leane soules treaden under foote.
And to seeke redresse mought little boote;
For liker bene they to pluck away more,
Then ought of the gotten good to restore:
For they bene like foule wagmoires over-grast, 130
That if thy galage once sticketh fast,
The more to wind it out thou doest swinck,
Thou mought ay deeper and deeper sinck.
Yet better leave of with a little losse,
Then by much wrestling to leese the grosse. 135
Hob. Nowe, Diggon, I see thou speakest to plaine:
Better it were a little to feyne,
And cleanly cover that cannot be cured:
Such il as is forced mought nedes be endured.
But of sike pastoures howe done the flocks creepe? 140
Dig. Sike as the shepheards, sike bene her sheepe:
For they nill listen to the shepheards voyce,
But if he call hem at theyr good choyce:
They wander at wil and stray at pleasure,
And to theyr foldes yeed at their owne leasure. 145
But they had be better come at their cal;
For many han into mischiefe fall,
And bene of ravenous wolves yrent,
All for they nould be buxome and bent.
Hob. Fye on thee, Diggon, and all thy foule leasing! 150
Well is knowne that sith the Saxon king,
Never was woolfe seene, many nor some,
Nor in all Kent, nor in Christendome:
But the fewer woolves (the soth to sayne,)
The more bene the foxes that here remaine. 155
Dig. Yes, but they gang in more secrete wise,
And with sheepes clothing doen hem disguise:
They walke not widely as they were wont,
For feare of raungers and the great hunt,
But prively prolling to and froe, 160
Enaunter they mought be inly knowe.