PIERS. Ah! fon; for Love does teach him climb so high, And lifts him up out of the loathsome mire; Such immortal mirror, as he doth admire, Would raise one's mind above the starry sky, And cause a caitiff courage to aspire; For lofty love doth loathe a lowly eye.
CUD. All otherwise the state of Poet stands; For lordly Love is such a tyrant fell, That, where he rules, all power he doth expel; The vaunted verse a vacant head demands, Ne wont with crabbed care the Muses dwell: Unwisely weaves, that takes two webs in hand.
Who ever casts to compass weighty prize, And thinks to throw out thund'ring words of threat, Let pour in lavish cups and thrifty bits of meat, For Bacchus' fruit is friend to Phoebus wise; And, when with wine the brain begins to sweat, The numbers flow as fast as spring doth rise.
Thou kenst not, Percie, how the rhyme should rage; O if my temples were distain'd with wine, And girt in garlands of wild ivy twine, How I could rear the Muse on stately stage, And teach her tread aloft in buskin fine, With quaint Bellona in her equipage!
But ah! my courage cools ere it be warm: Forthy content us in this humble shade, Where no such troublous tides have us assay'd; Here we our slender pipes may safely charm. PIERS. And, when my goats shall have their bellies laid, Cuddie shall have a kid to store his farm.
CUDDIE'S EMBLEME.[17] _Agitante calescimus illo, etc._
In this xi. Æglogue he bewaileth the death of some maiden of great blood, whom he calleth Dido. The personage is secret, and to me altogether unknown, albeit of himself I often required the same. This Æglogue is made in imitation of Marot his song, which he made upon the death of Loyes the French Queen; but far passing his reach, and in mine opinion all other the Æglogues of this Book.
THENOT. Colin, my dear, when shall it please thee sing, As thou wert wont, songs of some jovisance? Thy Muse too long slumb'reth in sorrowing, Lulled asleep through Love's misgovernance. Now somewhat sing, whose endless sovenance Among the shepheards' swains may aye remain, Whether thee list thy loved lass advance, Or honour Pan with hymns of higher vein. COL. Thenot, now n'is the time of merrimake, Nor Pan to herie, nor with Love to play; Such mirth in May is meetest for to make, Or summer shade, under the cocked hay. But now sad winter welked hath the day, And Phoebus, weary of his yearly task, Ystabled hath his steeds in lowly lay, And taken up his inn in Fishes'[18] hask: Thilk sullen season sadder plight doth ask, And loatheth such delights as thou dost praise: The mournful Muse in mirth now list ne mask, As she was wont in youth and summer-days; But if thou algate lust light virelays, And looser songs of love to underfong, Who but thyself deserves such poets' praise? Relieve thy oaten pipes that sleepen long. THE. The nightingale is sovereign of song, Before him sits the titmouse silent be; And I, unfit to thrust in skilful throng, Should Colin make judge of my foolery. Nay, better learn of them that learned be, And have been watered at the Muses' well; The kindly dew drops from the higher tree, And wets the little plants that lowly dwell: But if sad winter's wrath, and season chill, Accord not with thy Muse's merriment, To sadder times thou mayst attune thy quill, And sing of sorrow and death's dreariment; For dead is Dido,[19] dead, alas! and drent, Dido! the great shepheard his daughter sheen: The fairest may she was that ever went, Her like she has not left behind, I ween: And, if thou wilt bewail my woful teen, I shall thee give yond cosset for thy pain; And, if thy rhymes as round and rueful been As those that did thy Rosalind complain, Much greater gifts for guerdon thou shalt gain. Than kid or cosset, which I thee benempt: Then up, I say, thou jolly shepheard swain, Let not my small demand be so contempt. COL. Thenot, to that I chose thou dost me tempt; But ah! too well I wot my humble vein, And how my rhymes be rugged and unkempt; Yet, as I con, my conning I will strain.