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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374503" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Shepheardes Calender: Januarie</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Januarie: Ægloga Prime. Colin Cloute.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A Shepeheards boye (no better doe him call)<br>when Winters wastful spight was almost spent,<br>All in a sunneshine day, as did befall, <br>Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent. <br>So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde,<br>That now vnnethes their feete could them vphold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All as the Sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke,<br>For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while,)<br>May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke:<br>Well couth he tune his pipe, and frame his stile.<br>Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde,<br>And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there fedde.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ye gods of loue, that pitie louers payne,<br>(if any gods the paine of louers pitie):<br>Looke from aboue, where you in ioyes remaine, <br>And bowe your eares vnto my doleful dittie.<br>And Pan thou shepheards God, that once didst loue,<br>Pitie the paines, that thou thy selfe didst proue.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou barrein ground, whome winters wrath hath wasted, <br>Art made a myrrhour, to behold my plight:<br>Whilome thy fresh spring flowrd, and after hasted<br>Thy sommer prowde with Daffadillies dight.<br>And now is come thy wynters stormy state,<br>Thy mantle mard, wherein thou mas-kedst late.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Such rage as winters, reigneth in my heart,<br>My life bloud friesing wtih vnkindly cold:<br>Such stormy stoures do breede my balefull smarte,<br>As if my yeare were wast, and woxen old.<br>And yet alas, but now my spring begonne,<br>And yet alas, yt is already donne.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,<br>Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre:<br>And now are clothd with mosse and hoary frost,<br>Instede of bloosmes, wherwith your buds did flowre:<br>I see your teares, that from your boughes doe raine,<br>Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sere,<br>My timely buds with wayling all are wasted:<br>The blossome, which my braunch of youth did beare,<br>With breathed sighes is blowne away, & blasted,<br>And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend,<br>As on your boughes the ysicles depend.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thou feeble flocke, whose fleece is rough and rent,<br>Whose knees are weak through fast and evill fare:<br>Mayst witnesse well by thy ill gouernement, <br>Thy maysters mind is ouercome with care.<br>Thou weak, I wanne: thou leabe, I quite forlorne:<br>With mourning pyne I, you with pyning mourne.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A thousand sithes I curse that carefull hower,<br>Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see:<br>And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure,<br>Wherein I sawe so fayre a sight, as shee.<br>Yet all for naught: snch [such] sight hath bred my bane.<br>Ah God, that loue should breede both ioy and payne.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is not Hobbinol, wherefore I plaine,<br>Albee my loue he seeke with dayly suit:<br>His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine,<br>His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit.<br>Ah foolish Hobbinol, thy gyfts bene vayne:<br>Colin them gives to Rosalind againe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I loue thilke lasse, (alas why doe I loue?)<br>And am forlorne, (alas why am I lorne?)<br>Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reproue,<br>And of my rurall musick holdeth scorne.<br>Shepheards deuise she hateth as the snake,<br>And laughes the songes, that Colin Clout doth make.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wherefore my pype, albee rude Pan thou please,<br>Yet for thou pleasest not, where most I would:<br>And thou vnlucky Muse, that wontst to ease<br>My musing mynd, yet canst not, when thou should:<br>Both pype and Muse, shall sore the while abye.<br>So broke his oaten pype, and downe dyd lye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">By that, the welked Phoebus gan availe,<br>His weary waine, and nowe the frosty Night<br>Her mantle black through heauen gan overhaile.<br>Which seene, the pensife boy halfe in despight<br>Arose, and homeward drove his sonned sheepe,<br>Whose hanging heads did seeme his carefull case to weepe.</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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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374503" data-title="The Shepheardes Calender: Januarie de Edmund Spenser" data-description="Januarie: Ægloga Prime. Colin Cloute.

A Shepeheards boye (no better doe him call)
when Winters wastful spight was almost spent,
All in a sunneshine day, as did befall, 
Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent. 
So faynt they woxe, and feeb..."></div>
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