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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374508" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Shepheardes Calender: November</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">November: Ægloga vndecima. Thenot & Colin.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thenot. <br>Colin my deare, when shall it please thee sing, <br>As thou were | wont songs of some iouisaunce? <br>Thy Muse to long slombreth in sorrowing, <br>Lulled a sleepe through loues misgouernaunce. <br>Now somewhat sing, whose endles souenaunce, <br>Emong the shepeheards swaines may aye remaine, <br>Whether thee list the loued lasse aduaunce, <br>Or honor Pan with hymnes of higher vaine. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Colin.<br>Thenot, now nis the time of merimake. <br>Nor Pan to herye, nor with loue to playe: <br>Sike myrth in May is meetest for to make, <br>Or summer shade vnder the cocked haye. <br>But nowe sadde Winter welked hath the day, <br>And Phoebus weary of his yerely tas-ke, <br>Ystabled hath his steedes in lowlye laye, <br>And taken vp his ynne in Fishes has-ke. <br>Thilke sollein season sadder plight doth aske: <br>And loatheth sike delightes, as thou doest prayse: <br>The mornefull Muse in myrth now list ne mas-ke, <br>As shee was wont in yougth and sommer dayes. <br>But if thou algate lust light virelayes, <br>And looser songs of loue to vnderfong <br>Who but thy selfe deserues sike Poetes prayse? <br>Relieue thy Oaten pypes, that sleepen long. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thenot.<br>The Nightingale is souereigne of song, <br>Before him sits the Titmose silent bee: <br>And I vnfitte to thrust in [s]kilfull thronge, <br>Should Colin make iudge of my fooleree. <br>Nay, better learne of hem, that learned bee, <br>An han be watered at the Muses well: <br>The kindlye dewe drops from the higher tree, <br>And wets the little plants that lowly dwell. <br>But if sadde winters wrathe and season chill, <br>Accorde not with thy Muses meriment: <br>To sadder times thou mayst attune thy quill, <br>And sing of sorrowe and deathes dreeriment. <br>For deade is Dido, dead alas and drent, <br>Dido the greate shepehearde his daughter sheene: <br>The fayrest May she was that euer went, <br>Her like shee has not left behind I weene. <br>And if thou wilt bewayle my wofull tene: <br>I shall thee giue yond Cosset for thy payne: <br>And if thy rymes as rownd and rufull bene, <br>As those that did thy Rosalind complayne, <br>Much greater gyfts for guerdon thou shalt gayne, <br>Then Kidde of Cosset, which I thee bynempt: <br>Then vp I say, thou iolly shepeheard swayne, <br>Let not my small demaund be so contempt. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Colin.<br>Thenot to that I choose, thou doest me tempt, <br>But ah to well I wote my humble vaine, <br>And howe my rymes bene rugged and vnkempt: <br>Yet as I conne, my conning I will strayne. <br>Vp then Melpomene thou mounefulst Muse of nyne, <br>Such cause of mourning neuer hadst afore: <br>Vp grieslie ghostes and vp my rufull ryme, <br>Matter of myrth now shalt thou haue no more. <br>For dead she is, that myrth thee made of yore. <br>Didomy deare alas is dead, <br>Dead and lyeth wrapt in lead: <br>O heauie herse, <br>Let streaming teares be poured out in store: <br>O carefull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Shepheards, that by your flocks on Kentish downes abyde, <br>Waile ye this wofull waste of natures warke: <br>Waile we the wight, whose presence was our pryde: <br>Waile we the wight, whose absence is our carke. <br>The sonne of all the world is dimme and darke: <br>The earth now lacks her wonted light, <br>And all we dwell in deadly night, <br>O heauie herse, <br>Breake we our pypes, that shrild as lowde as Larke, <br>O carefull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why do we longer liue, (ah why liue we so long) <br>Whose better dayes death hath shut vp in woe? <br>The fayrest floure our gyrlond all emong, <br>Is faded quite and into dust ygoe. <br>Sing now ye shepheards daughters, sing no moe <br>The songs that Colin made in her prayse, <br>But into weeping turne your wanton layes, <br>O heauie herse, <br>Now is time to dye. Nay time was long ygoe, <br>O carefull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whence is it, that the flouret of the field doth fade, <br>And lyeth buryed long in Winters bale: <br>Yet soone as spring his mantle hath displayd, <br>It floureth fresh, as it should neuer fayle? <br>But thing on earth that is of most auaile, <br>As vertues braunch and beauties budde, <br>Reliuen not for any good. <br>O heauie herse, <br>The braunch once dead, the budde eke needes must quaile, <br>O carefull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">She while she was, (that was, a woful word to sayne) <br>For beauties prayse and pleasaunce had no pere: <br>So well she couth the shepherds entertayne, <br>With cakes and cracknells and such country chere. <br>Ne would she scorne the simple shepheards swaine, <br>For she would call hem often heame <br>And giue hem curds and clouted Creame. <br>O heauie herse, <br>Als Colin cloute she would not once disdayne. <br>O carefull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But nowe sike happy cheere is turnd to heauie chaunce, <br>Such pleasaunce now displast by dolors dint: <br>All Musick sleepes, where death doth leade the daunce, <br>And shepherds wonted solace is extinct. <br>The blew in black, the greene in gray is tinct, <br>The gaudie girlonds deck her graue, <br>The faded flowres her corse embraue. <br>O heauie herse, <br>Morne nowe my Muse, now morne with teares besprint. <br>O carefull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O thou great shepheard Lobbin, how great is thy griefe, <br>Where bene the nosegayes that she dight for thee: <br>The coloured chaplets wrought with a chiefe, <br>The knotted rushrings, and gilte Rosemaree? <br>For shee deemed nothing too deere for thee. <br>Ah they bene all yclad in clay, <br>One bitter blast blew all away. <br>O heauie herse, <br>Thereof nought remaynes but the memoree. <br>O carefull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ay me that dreerie death should strike so mortall stroke, <br>That can vndoe Dame natures kindly course: <br>The faded lockes fall from the loftie oke, <br>The flouds do gaspe, for dryed is thyr sourse, <br>And flouds of teares flowe in theyr stead perforse. <br>The mantled medowes mourne, <br>Theyr sondry colours tourne. <br>O heauie herse, <br>The heauens doe melt in teares without remorse. <br>O carefull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The feeble flocks in field refuse their former foode, <br>And hang theyr heads, as they would learne to weepe: <br>The beastes in forest wayle as they were woode, <br>Except the Wolues, that chase the wandring sheepe: <br>Now she is gon that safely did hem keepe. <br>The Turtle on the bared braunch, <br>Laments the wound, that death did launch. <br>O heauie herse, <br>And Philomele her song with teares doth steepe. <br>O carefull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The water Nymphs, that wont with her to sing and daunce, <br>And for her girlond Oliue braunches beare, <br>Now balefull boughes of Cypres doen advaunce: <br>The Muses, that were wont greene bayes to weare, <br>Now bringen bitter Eldre braunches seare: <br>The fatall sisters eke repent, <br>Her vitall threde so soone was spent. <br>O heauie herse, <br>Mourne now my Muse, now mourne with heauie cheare. <br>O carefull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O trustlesse state of earthly things, and slipper hope <br>Of mortal men, that swincke and sweate for nought, <br>And shooting wide, doe misse the marked scope: <br>Now haue I learnd (a lesson derely bought) <br>That nys on earth assuraunce to be sought: <br>For what might be in earthlie mould, <br>That did her buried body hould, <br>O heauie herse, <br>Yet saw I on the beare when it was brought, <br>O carefull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But maugre death, and dreaded sisters deadly spight, <br>And gates of hel, and fyrie furies forse: <br>She hath the bonds broke of eternall night, <br>Her soule vnbodied of the burdenous corpse. <br>Why then weepes Lobbin so without remorse? <br>O Lobb, thy losse no longer lament, <br>Didonis dead, but into heauen hent. <br>O happye herse, <br>Cease now my Muse, now cease thy sorrowes sourse, <br>O ioyfull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why wayle we then? why weary we the Gods with playnts, <br>As if some euill were to her betight? <br>She raignes a goddesse now emong the saintes, <br>That whilome was the saynt of shepheards light: <br>And is enstalled nowe in heauens hight. <br>I see thee blessed soule, I see, <br>Walke in Elisian fieldes so free. <br>O happy herse, <br>Might I once come to thee (O that I might) <br>O ioyfull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Vnwise and wretched men to weete whats good or ill, <br>We deeme of Death as doome of ill desert: <br>But knewe we fooles, what it vs bringes vntil, <br>Dye would we dayly, once it to expert. <br>No daunger there the shepheard can astert: <br>Fayre fieldes and pleasaunt layes there bene, <br>The fieldes ay fresh, the grasse ay greene: <br>O happy herse, <br>Make hast ye shepheards, thether to reuert, <br>O ioyfull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dido is gone afore (whose turne shall be the next?) <br>There liues shee with the blessed Gods in blisse, <br>There drincks she Nectar with Ambrosia mixt, <br>And ioyes enioyes, that mortall men do misse. <br>The honor now of highest gods she is, <br>That whilome was poore shepheards pryde, <br>While here on earth she did abyde. <br>O happy herse, <br>Ceasse now my song, my woe now wasted is. <br>O ioyfull verse. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thenot.<br>Ay francke shepheard, how bene thy verses meint <br>With doolful pleasaunce, so as I ne wote, <br>Whether reioyce or weepe for great constrainte? <br>Thyne be the cossette, well hast thow it gotte. <br>Vp Colin vp, ynough thou mourned hast, <br>Noy gynnes to mizzle, hye we homeward fast. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Colins Embleme. <br>La mort ny mord.</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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Thenot. 
Colin my deare, when shall it please thee sing, 
As thou were | wont songs of some iouisaunce? 
Thy Muse to long slombreth in sorrowing, 
Lulled a sleepe through loues misgouernaunce. 
Now some..."></div>
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