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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374502" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Shepheardes Calender: Februarie</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Februarie: Ægloga Secunda. CVDDIE & THENOT.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">CVDDIE.<br>AH for pittie, wil ranke Winters rage, <br>These bitter blasts neuer ginne tasswage? <br>The keene cold blowes throug my beaten hyde, <br>All as I were through the body gryde. <br>My ragged rontes all shiver and shake, <br>As doen high Towers in an earthquake: <br>They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle tailes, <br>Perke as Peacock: but nowe it auales. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">THENOT.<br>Lewdly complainest thou laesie ladde, <br>Of Winters wracke, for making thee sadde. <br>Must not the world wend in his commun course <br>From good to badd, and from badde to worse, <br>From worse vnto that is worst of all, <br>And then returne to his former fall? <br>Who will not suffer the stormy time, <br>Where will he liue tyll the lusty prime? <br>Selfe haue I worne out thrise threttie yeares, <br>Some in much ioy, many in many teares: <br>Yet never complained of cold nor heate, <br>Of Sommers flame, nor of Winters threat: <br>Ne euer was to Fortune foeman, <br>But gently tooke, that vngently came. <br>And euer my flocke was my chiefe care, <br>Winter or Sommer they mought well fare. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">CVDDIE.<br>No marueile Thenot, if thou can not beare <br>Cherefully the Winters wrathfull cheare: <br>For Age and Winter accord full nie, <br>This chill, that cold, this crooked, that wrye. <br>And as the lowring Wether lookes downe, <br>So semest thou like good fryday to frowne. <br>But my flowring youth is foe to frost, <br>My shippe vnwont in stormes to be tost. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">THENOT.<br>The soueraigne of seas he blames in vaine, <br>That once seabeate, will to sea againe. <br>So loytring liue you little heardgroomes, <br>Keeping your beastes in the budded broomes: <br>And when the shining sunne laugheth once, <br>You deemen, the Spring is come attonce. <br>Tho gynne you, fond flyes, the cold to scorn, <br>And crowing in pypes made of greene corne, <br>You thinken to be Lords of the yeare. <br>But eft, when ye count you freed from feare, <br>Comes the breme winter with chamfred browes, <br>Full of wrinckles and frostie furrowes: <br>Drerily shooting his stormy darte, <br>Which cruddles the blood, and pricks the harte. <br>Then is your carelesse corage accoied, <br>Your carefull heards with cold bene annoied. <br>Then paye you the price of your surqedrie, <br>With weeping, and wayling, and misery. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">CVDDIE.<br>Ah foolish old man, I scorne thy skill, <br>That wouldest me, my springing yougth to spil. <br>I deeme, thy braine emperished bee <br>Through rusty elde, that hath rotted thee: <br>Or sicker thy head veray tottie is, <br>So on thy corbe shoulder it leanes amisse. <br>Now thy selfe hast lost both lopp and topp, <br>Als my budding branch thou wouldest cropp: <br>But were thy yeares greene, as now bene myne, <br>To other delights they would encline. <br>Tho wouldest thou learne to caroll of Loue, <br>And hery with hymnes thy lasses gloue. <br>Tho wouldest thou pype of Phyllis prayse: <br>But Phyllis is myne for many dayes: <br>I wonne her with a girdle of gelt, <br>Embost with buegle about the belt. <br>Such an one shepeheards woulde make full faine: <br>Such an one would make thee younge againe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">THENOT.<br>Thou art a fon, of thy loue to boste, <br>All that is lent to loue, wyll be lost. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">CVDDIE.<br>Seest, howe brag yond Bullocke beares, <br>So smirke, so smoothe, his pricked eares? <br>His hornes bene as broade, as Rainebowe bent, <br>His dewelap as lythe, as lasse of Kent. <br>See howe he venteth into the wynd. <br>Weenest of loue is not his mynd? <br>Seemeth thy flock thy counsell can, <br>So lustlesse bene they, so weake so wan, <br>Clothed with cold, and hoary wyth frost. <br>Thy flocks father his corage hath lost: <br>Thy Ewes, that wont to haue blowen bags, <br>Like wailful widdowes hangen their crags: <br>The rather Lambes bene starued with cold, <br>All for their Maister is lustlesse and old. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">THENOT.<br>Cuddie, I wote thou kenst little good, <br>So vainely taduance thy headlesse hood. <br>For Youngth is a bubble blown vp with breath, <br>Whose witt is weakenesse, whose wage is death, <br>Whose way is wildernesse, whose ynne Penaunce, <br>And stoopegallaunt Age the hoste of Greeuance. <br>But shall I tel thee a tale of truth, <br>Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth, <br>Keeping his sheepe on the hils of Kent? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">CVDDIE.<br>To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bent, <br>Then to heare nouells of his deuise: <br>They bene so well thewed, and so wise, <br>What euer that good old man bespake. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">THENOT.<br>Many meete tales of youth did he make, <br>And some of loue, and some of cheualrie: <br>But none fitter than this to applie. <br>Now listen a while, and hearken the end. <br>THere grewe an aged Tree on the greene, <br>A goodly Oake sometime had it bene, <br>With armes full strong and largely displayd, <br>But of their leaues they were disarayde: <br>The bodie bigge, and mightily pight, <br>Throughly rooted, and of wonderous hight: <br>Whilome had bene the King of the field, <br>And mochell mast to the husband did yielde, <br>And with his nuts larded many swine. <br>But now the gray mosse marred his rine, <br>His bared boughes were beaten with stormes, <br>His toppe was bald, & wasted with wormes, <br>His honor decayed, his braunches sere. <br>Hard by his side grew a bragging brere, <br>Which proudly thrust into Thelement, <br>And seemed to threat the Firmament. <br>Yt was embellisht with blossomes fayre, <br>And thereto aye wonned to repayre <br>The shepheards daughters, to gather flowres, <br>To peinct thir girlonds with his colowres. <br>And in his small bushes vsed to shrowde <br>The sweete Nightingale singing so lowde: <br>Which made this foolish Brere wexe so bold, <br>That on a time he cast him to scold, <br>And snebbe the good Oake, for he was old. <br>Why standst there (quoth he) thou brutish blocke? <br>Nor for fruict, nor for shadowe serues thy stocke: <br>Seest, how fresh my flowers bene spredde, <br>Dyed in Lilly white, and Cremsin redde, <br>With leaves engrained in lusty greene, <br>Colours meete to clothe a mayden Queene. <br>Thy wast bignes but combers the grownd, <br>And dirks the beauty of my blossomes rownd. <br>The mouldie mosse, which thee accloieth, <br>My Sinnamon smell too much annoieth. <br>Wherefore soone I rede thee, hence remove, <br>Least thou the price of my displeasure proue. <br>So spake this bold brere with great disdaine: <br>Little him answered the Oake againe, <br>But yielded, with shame and greefe adawed, <br>That of a weede he was ouerawed. <br>Yt chaunced after vpon a day, <br>The Hus-bandman selfe to come that way, <br>Of custome to seruewe his grownd, <br>And his trees of state in compasse rownd. <br>Him when the spitefull brere had espyed, <br>Causlesse complained, and lowdly cryed <br>Vnto his Lord, stirring vp sterne strife: <br>O my liege Lord, the God of my life, <br>Pleaseth you ponder your Suppliants plaint, <br>Caused of wrong, and cruell constraint, <br>Which I your poore Vassall dayly endure: <br>And but your goodnes the same recure, <br>Am like for desperate doole to dye, <br>Through felonous force of mine enemie. <br>Greatly aghast with this piteous plea, <br>Him rested the goodman on the lea, <br>And badde the Brere in his plaint proceede. <br>With painted words tho gan this proude weede, <br>(As most vsen Ambitious folke <br>His colowred crime with craft to cloke. <br>Ah my soueraigne, Lord of creatures all, <br>Thou placer of plants both humble and tall, <br>Was not I planted of thine owne hand, <br>To be the primrose of all thy land, <br>With flowring blossomes, to furnish the prime, <br>And scarlot berries in Sommer time? <br>How falls it then, that this faded Oake, <br>Whose bodie is sere, whose braunches broke, <br>Whose naked Armes stretch vnto the fyre, <br>Vnto such tyrannie doth aspire: <br>Hindering with his shade my louely light, <br>And robbing me of the swete sonnes sight? <br>So beate his old boughes my tender side, <br>That oft the bloud springeth from wounds wyde: <br>Vntimely my flowres forced to fall, <br>That bene the honor of your Coranall. <br>And oft he lets his cancker wormes light <br>Vpon my braunches, to worke me more spight: <br>And oft his hoarie locks downe doth cast, <br>Where with my fresh flowretts bene defast. <br>For this, and many more such outrage, <br>Crauing your goodlihead to aswage <br>The ranckorous rigour of his might, <br>Nought aske I, but onely to hold my right: <br>Submitting me to your good sufferance, <br>And praying to be garded from greeuance. <br>To this the Oake cast him to replie <br>Well as he couth: but his enemie <br>Had kindled such coles of displeasure, <br>That the good man noulde stay his leasure, <br>But home him hasted with furious heate, <br>Encreasing his wrath with many a threate. <br>His harmefull Hatchet he hent in hand, <br>(Alas, that it so ready should stand) <br>And to the field alone he speedeth. <br>(Ay little helpe to harme there needeth) <br>Anger nould let him speake to the tree, <br>Enaunter his rage mought cooled bee: <br>But to the roote bent his sturdy stroke, <br>And made many wounds in the wast Oake. <br>The Axes edge did oft turne againe, <br>As if halfe vnwilling to cutte the graine: <br>Semed, the sencelesse yron dyd feare, <br>Or to wrong holy eld did forbeare. <br>For it had bene an auncient tree, <br>Sacred with many a mysteree, <br>And often crost with the priestes crewe, <br>And often halowed with holy water dewe. <br>But sike fancies weren foolerie, <br>And broughten this Oake to this miserye. <br>For nought mought they quitten him from decay: <br>For fiercely the good man at him did laye. <br>The blocke oft groned vnder the blow, <br>And sighed to see his neare ouerthrow. <br>In fine the steele had pierced his pith, <br>Tho downe to the earth he fell forthwith: <br>His wonderous weight made the grounde to quake, <br>Thearth shronke vnder him, and seemed to shake. <br>There lyeth the Oake, pitied of none. <br>Now stands the Brere like a Lord alone, <br>Puffed vp with pryde and vaine pleasaunce: <br>But all this glee had no continuaunce. <br>For eftsones Winter gan to approche, <br>The blustring Boreas did encroche, <br>And beate vpon the solitarie Brere: <br>For nowe no succoure was seene him nere. <br>Now gan he repent his pryde to late: <br>For naked left and disconsolate, <br>The byting frost nipt his stalke dead, <br>The watrie wette weighed downe his head, <br>And heaped snowe burdned him so sore, <br>That nowe vpright he can stand no more: <br>And being downe, is trodde in the durt <br>Of cattell, and brouzed, and sorely hurt. <br>Such was thend of this Ambitious brere, <br>For scorning Eld </div><div style="margin:10px 0">CVDDIE. <br>Now I pray thee shepheard, tel it not forth: <br>Here is a long tale, and little worth. <br>So longe haue I listned to thy speche, <br>That graffed to the ground is my breache: <br>My hartblood is welnigh frorne I feele, <br>And my galage growne fast to my heele: <br>But little ease of thy lewd tale I tasted. <br>Hye thee home shepheard, the day is nigh wasted.</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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CVDDIE.
AH for pittie, wil ranke Winters rage, 
These bitter blasts neuer ginne tasswage? 
The keene cold blowes throug my beaten hyde, 
All as I were through the body gryde. 
My ragged rontes all shiv..."></div>
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