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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374501" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Shepheardes Calender: December</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">December: Ægloga Duodecima.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He gentle shepheard satte beside a springe, <br>All in the shadowe of a bushy brere, <br>That Colin hight, which wel could pype and singe, <br>For he of Tityrus his songs did lere. <br>There as he satte in secreate shade alone, <br>Thus gan he make of loue his piteous mone. <br>O soueraigne Pan thou God of shepheards all, <br>Which of our tender Lambkins takest keepe: <br>And when our flocks into mischaunce mought fall, <br>Doest save from mischeife the vnwary sheepe: <br>Als of their maisters hast no lesse regarde, <br>Then of the flocks, which thou doest watch and ward: </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I thee beseche (so be thou deigne to heare, <br>Rude ditties tund to shepheards Oaten reede, <br>Or if I euer sonet song so cleare, <br>As it with pleasaunce mought thy fancie feede) <br>Hearken awhile from thy greene cabinet, <br>The rurall song of carefull Colinet. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whilome in youth, when flowrd my ioyfull spring, <br>Like Swallow swift I wandred here and there: <br>For heate of heedlesse lust me so did sting, <br>That I of doubted daunger had no feare. <br>I went the wastefull woodes and forest wyde, <br>Withouten dreade of Wolues to bene espyed. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I wont to raunge amydde the mazie thickette, <br>And gather nuttes to make me Christmas game: <br>And ioyed oft to chace the trembling Pricket, <br>Or hunt the hartlesse hare, til shee were tame. <br>What wreaked I of wintrye ages waste, <br>Tho deemed I, my spring would euer laste. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">How often haue I scaled the craggie Oke, <br>All to dislodge the Rauen of her neste: <br>Howe haue I wearied with many a stroke, <br>The stately Walnut tree, the while the rest <br>Vnder the tree fell all for nuts at strife: <br>For ylike to me was libertee and lyfe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And for I was in thilke same looser yeares, <br>(Whether the Muse so wrought me from my birth, <br>Or I tomuch beleeued my shepherd peres) <br>Somedele ybent to song and musicks mirth, <br>A good olde shephearde, Wrenock was his name, <br>Made me by arte more cunning in the same. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Fro thence I durst in derring [doe] compare <br>With shepheards swayne, what euer fedde in field: <br>And if that Hobbinol right iudgement bare, <br>To Pan his owne selfe pype I neede not yield. <br>For if the flocking Nymphes did folow Pan, <br>The wiser Muses after Colin ranne. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But ah such pryde at length was ill repayde, <br>The shepheards God (perdie God was he none) <br>My hurtlesse pleasaunce did me ill vpbraide, <br>My freedome lorne, my life he lefte to mone. <br>Loue they him called, that gaue me checkmate, <br>But better mought they haue behote him Hate. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Tho gan my louely Spring bid me farewel, <br>And Sommer season sped him to display <br>(For loue then in the Lyons house did dwell) <br>The raging fyre, that kindled at his ray. <br>A comett stird vp that vnkindly heate, <br>That reigned (as men sayd) in Venus seate. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Forth was I ledde, not as I wont afore, <br>When choise I had to choose my wandring waye: <br>But whether luck and loues vnbridled lore <br>Would leade me forth on Fancies bitte to playe: <br>The bush my bedde, the bramble was my bowre, <br>The Woodes can witnesse many a wofull stowre. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where I was wont to seeke the honey Bee, <br>Working her formall rowmes in Wexen frame: <br>The grieslie Todestool growne there mought I se <br>And loathed Paddocks lording on the same. <br>And where the chaunting birds luld me a sleepe, <br>The ghastlie Owle her grieuous ynne doth keepe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then as the springe giues place to elder time, <br>And bringeth forth the fruite of sommers pryde: <br>Also my age now passed yougthly pryme, <br>To thinges of ryper reason selfe applyed. <br>And learnd of lighter timber cotes to frame, <br>Such as might saue my sheepe and me fro shame. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">To make fine cages for the Nightingale, <br>And Baskets of bulrushes was my wont: <br>Who to entrappe the fish in winding sale <br>Was better seene, or hurtful beastes to hont? <br>I learned als the signes of heauen to ken, <br>How Phoebe sayles, where Venus sittes and when. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And tryed time yet taught me greater thinges, <br>The sodain rysing of the raging seas: <br>The soothe of byrds by beating of their wings, <br>The power of herbs, both which can hurt and ease: <br>And which be wont tenrage the restlesse sheepe, <br>And which be wont to worke eternall sleepe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But ah vnwise and witlesse Colin cloute, <br>That kydst the hidden kinds of many a wede: <br>Yet kydst not ene to cure thy sore hart roote, <br>Whose ranckling wound as yet does rifely bleede. <br>Why liuest thou stil, and yet hast thy deathes wound? <br>Why dyest thou stil, and yet aliue art founde? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus is my sommer worne away and wasted, <br>Thus is my haruest hastened all to rathe: <br>The eare that budded faire, is burnt & blasted, <br>And all my hoped gaine is turned to scathe. <br>Of all the seede, that in my youth was sowne, <br>Was nought but brakes and brambles to be mowne. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">My boughes with bloosmes that crowned were at firste, <br>And promised of timely fruite such store, <br>Are left both bare and barrein now at erst: <br>The flattring fruite is fallen to grownd before. <br>And rotted, ere they were halfe mellow ripe: <br>My haruest wast, my hope away dyd wipe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The fragrant flowres, that in my garden grewe, <br>Bene withered, as they had bene gathered long. <br>Theyr rootes bene dryed vp for lacke of dewe, <br>Yet dewed with teares they han be euer among. <br>Ah who has wrought my Ro[s]alind this spight <br>To spil the flowres, that should her girlond dight, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And I, that whilome wont to frame my pype, <br>Vnto the shifting of the shepheards foote: <br>Sike follies nowe haue gathered as too ripe, <br>And cast hem out, as rotten an vnsoote. <br>The loser Lasse I cast to please nomore, <br>One if I please, enough is me therefore. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And thus of all my haruest hope I haue <br>Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care: <br>Which, when I thought haue thresht in swelling sheaue, <br>Cockel for corne, and chaffe for barley bare. <br>Soone as the chaffe should in the fan be fynd, <br>All was blowne away of the wauering wynd. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So now my yeare drawes to his latter terme, <br>My spring is spent, my sommer burnt vp quite: <br>My harueste hasts to stirre vp winter sterne, <br>And bids him clayme with rigorous rage hys right. <br>So nowe he stormes with many a sturdy stoure, <br>So now his blustring blast eche coste doth scoure. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The carefull cold hath nypt my rugged rynde, <br>And in my face deepe furrowes eld hath pight: <br>My head besprent with hoary frost I fynd, <br>And by myne eie the Crow his clawe dooth wright. <br>Delight is layd abedde, and pleasure past, <br>No sonne now shines, cloudes han all ouercast. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now leaue ye shepheards boyes yo[u]r merry glee, <br>My Muse is hoarse and weary of thys stounde: <br>Here will I hang my pype vpon this tree, <br>Was neuer pype of reede did better sounde. <br>Winter is come, that blowes the bitter blaste, <br>And after Winter dreerie death does hast. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gather ye together my little flocke, <br>My little flock, that was to me so liefe: <br>Let me, ah lette me in your folds ye lock, <br>Ere the breme Winter breede you greater griefe. <br>Winter is come, that blowes the balefull breath, <br>And after Winter commeth timely death. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Adieu delightes, that lulled me asleepe, <br>Adieu my deare, whose loue I bought so deare: <br>Adieu my little Lambes and loued sheepe, <br>Adieu ye Woodes that oft my witnesse were: <br>Adieu good Hobbinol, that was so true, <br>Tell Rosalind, her Colin bids her adieu. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Colins Embleme. <br>[Vivitur ingenio, caetera mortis erunt.]</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edmund+Spenser">Edmund Spenser</a><div class=q>
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He gentle shepheard satte beside a springe, 
All in the shadowe of a bushy 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, 
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