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And clapp'd on high his coloured winges twain,
That all his many it afraid did make:
Then, blinding him again, his way he forth did take.

Behind him was Reproach, Repentance, Shame;
Reproach the first, Shame next, Repent behind:
Repentance feeble, sorrowful and lame:
Reproach despiteful, careless, and unkind;
Shame most ill-favour'd, bestial, and blind; [scold;
Shame lour'd, Repentance sigh'd, Reproach did
Reproach sharp stings, Repentance whips entwin'd,
Shame burning brand-irons in her hand did hold;
All three to each unlike, yet all made in one mould.

And after them, a rude confused rout
Of persons flock'd, whose names is hard to read:
Amongst them was stern Strife, and Anger stout,
Unquiet Care, and fond Unthriftihead,
Lewd Loss of Time, and Sorrow seeming dead,
Inconstant Change, and false Disloyalty,
Consuming Riotise, and guilty Dread
Of heavenly vengeance, faint Infirmity,
Vile Poverty, and lastly Death with Infamy.

There were full many more like maladies,
Whose names and natures I not readen well;
So many more as there be phantasies
In wandering women's wit, that none can tell;
Or pains in love, or punishments in hell:
And, which disguised, march'd, in masking wise,
About the chamber with that Damosel,
And then returned (having marched thrice)
Into the inner room, from whence they first did rise.

THE SQUIRE AND THE DOVE.

well said the wise man, now prov'd true by this,
which to this gentle squire did happen late;
That the displeasure of the mighty is
Than death itself more dread and desperate:
For, nought the same may calm, nor mitigate,
Till time the tempest do thereof allay
With sufferance soft, which rigour can abate,
And have the stern remembrance wip'd away
Of bitter thoughts, which deep therein infixed lay.

Like as it fell to this unhappy boy,
Whose tender heart the fair Belphebe had
With one stern look so daunted, that no joy
In all his life, which afterwards he lad,
He ever tasted; but with penance sad,
And pensive sorrow, pin’d and wore away, [glad;
Nor ever laugh'd, nor once shew’d countenance
But always wept and wailed night and day, [decay;
As blasted blossom, through heat, doth languish and

Till on a day (as in his wonted wise
His dole he made) there chanc'd a turtle-dove
To come, where he his dolours did devise,
That likewise late had lost her dearest love;
Which loss her made like passion also prove.
Who seeing his sad plight, her tender heart

NEW ELEGANT EXTRACTS. 55

With dear compassion deeply did emmove,
That she gan moan his undeserved smart,
And with her doleful accent, bear with him a part.

She, sitting by him, as on ground he lay,
Her mournful notes full piteously did frame,
And thereof made a lamentable lay,
So sensibly compil'd, that in the same
Him seemed oft he heard his own right name.
With that, he forth would pour so plenteous tears,
And beat his breast unworthy of such blame,
And knock his head, and rend his rugged hairs,
That could have pierc'd the hearts of tigers and of

[bears. Thus long this gentle bird to him did use, Withouten dread of peril to repair Unto his wonne; and with her mournful muse Him to recomfort in his greatest care, That much did ease his mourning and misfare: And every day, for guerdon of her song, He part of his small feast to her would share; That, at the last, of all his woe and wrong, Companion she became, and so continued long.

Upon a day, as she him sate beside,
By chance he certain moniments forth drew,
Which yet with him as relicks did abide
Of all the bounty, which Belphebe threw
On him, while goodly grace she did him shew :
Amongst the rest, a jewel rich he found,
That was a ruby of right perfect hue,
Shap'd like a heart, yet bleeding of the wound,
And with a little golden chain about it bound.

The same he took, and with a ribbon new
(In which his lady's colours were) did bind
About the turtle’s neck, that with the view
Did greatly solace his engrieved mind.
All unawares the bird, when she did find
Herself so deck'd, her nimble wings display'd,
And flew away, as lightly as the wind:
Which sudden accident him much dismay’d,
And looking after long, did mark which way she
[stray’d.
But, when as long he looked had in vain,
Yet saw her forward still to make her flight,
His weary eye return'd to him again,
Full of discomfort and disquiet plight,
That both his jewel he had lost so light,
And eke his dear companion of his care.
But that sweet bird departing, flew forth right
Through the wide region of the wasteful air,
Until she came where wonned his Belphebe fair.

There found she her (as then it did betide)
sitting in covert shade of arbors sweet,
After late weary toil, which she had tried
In savage chace, to rest as seem'd her meet.
There she alighting, fell before her feet,
And gan to her, her mournful plaint to make,
As was her wont; thinking to let her weet
The great tormenting grief, that for her sake [take.
Her gentlesquire through her displeasure did par-

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And underneath thy feet to place her praise;
That when thy glory shall be far display'd
To future age, of her this mention may be made.”

When thus that shepherd ended had his speech,
Said Calidore, “Now sure it irketh me,
That to thy bliss I made this luckless breach,
As now the author of thy bale to be,
Thus to bereave thy love's dear sight from thee:
But, gentle shepherd, pardon thou my shame,
Who rashly sought that which I might not see.”
Thus did the courteous knight excuse his blame,
And to recomfort him all comely means did frame.

In such discourses they together spent
Long time, as fit occasion forth them led;
With which the knight himself did much content,
And with delight his greedy fancy fed,
Both of his words, which he with reason red;
And also of the place, whose pleasures rare
With such regard his senses ravished,
That thence he had no will away to fare, [ing share.
But wish'd that with that shepherd he might dwell-

The FABLE OF THE OAK AND THE BRIAR. (FRom the shepherd's caleNdAR.) Cuddy. Ah, for pity! will rank winter's rage These bitter blasts never’gin t” assuage? The keen cold blows through my beaten hide, All as I were through the body gride: My ragged ronts all shiver and shake, As done high towers in an earthquake: They wont in the wind wag their wriggle tails Peark as a peacock; but now it avails. Thenot. Leudly complainest, thou lazy lad, Of winter's wrack for making thee sad? Must not the world wend in his common course, From good to bad, and from bad to worse, From worse unto that is worst of all, And then return to his former fall 7 Who will not suffer the stormy time, Where will he live till the lusty prime? Self have I worn out thrice thirty years, Some in much joy, many in many tears, Yet never complained of cold nor heat, Of summer's flame, nor of winter's threat, Ne never was to Fortune foe-man, But gently took that ungently came; And ever my flock was my chief care, Winter or summer they mought well fare. Cuddy. No marvel, Thenot, if thou can bear Chearfully the winter's wrathful chear, For age and winter accord full nigh, This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wry; And as the low'ring weather looks down, So seemest thou like Good Friday to frown; But my flow'ring youth is foe to frost, My ship unwont in storms to be tost. Thenot. The sovereign of seas he blames in vain, That once sea-beat will to sea again: Soloytrin glive you little heard-grooms,

Keeping your beasts in the budded brooms; And when the shining sun laugheth once, You deemen the spring is come at once: Tho gin you, fond flies! the cold to scorn, And, crowing in pipes made of green corn, You thinken to be lords of the year; But eft when ye count you freed from fear, Comes the breme winter with chamfred brows, Full of wrinkles and frosty furrows, Drearily shooting his stormy dart, Which cruddles the blood and pricks the heart: Then is your careless courage accoyd, Your careful herds with cold be annoyed: Then pay you the price of your surquedry, With weeping, and wailing, and misery. Cuddy. Ah, foolish old man! I scorn thy skill, That wouldst me my springing youth to spill; I deem thy brain emperish’d be Through rusty eld, that hath rotted thee; Or siker thy head very totty is, So on thy corb shoulder it leans amiss. Now thyself hath lost both lop and top, Als my budding branch thou wouldest crop; But were thy years green, as now been mine, To other delights they would incline: Tho wouldest thou learn to carol of love, And hery with hymns thy lass's glove; Tho wouldest thou pipe of Phillis’ praise, But Phillis is mine for many days: I won her with a girdle of gelt, Emboss'd with bugle about the belt; Such an one shepherds would make full fain, Such an one would make thee young again. Thenot. Thou art a son of thy love to bost; All that is lent to love will be lost. Cuddy. Seest how brag yond bullock bears, So smirk, so smooth, his pricked ears? His horns been as brade as rainbow bent, His dewlap as lythe as lass of Kent? See how he venteth into the wind, Weenest of love is not his mind * Seemeth thy flock thy counsel can, So lustless been they, so weak, so wan; Clothed with cold, and hoary with frost, Thy flock's father his courage hath lost. Thy ewes that wont to have blown bags, Like wailful widows hanging their crags; The rather lambs been starv'd with cold, All for their master is lustless and old. Thenot. Cuddy, I wot thou kenst little good, So vainly to advance thy headless hood; For youth is a bubble blown up with breath, Whose wit is weakness, whose wage is death; Whose way is wilderness, whose inn penaunce, And stoop gallant age, the host of grievaunce. But shall I tell thee a tale of truth Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth, Keeping his sheep on the hills of Kent? Cuddy. To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bent Than to hear novels of his devise; They been so well thewed, and so wise, What ever that good old man bespake.

Thenot. Many meet tales of youth did he make, And some of love, and some of chivalry, But none fitter than this to apply. Now listen a while and hearken the end. “There grew an aged tree on the green, A goodly Oak sometime had it been, With arms full strong and largely display'd, But of their leaves they were disaray'd : The body big and mightily pight, Throughly rooted, and of wondrous height; Whilom had been the king of the field, And mochel mast to the husband did yield, And with his nuts larded many swine, But now the gray moss marred his rine, His bared boughs were beaten with storms, Histop was bald, and wasted with worms, His honour decay’d, his braunches sere. Hard by his side grew a bragging Breere, Which proudly thrust into th’ element, And seemed to threat the firmament: It was embellisht with blossoms fair, And thereto aye wonted to repair The shepherd's daughters to gather flowres, To paint their garlands with his colowres, And in his small bushes used to shroud, The sweet nightingale singing so loud, Which made this foolish Breere wer so bold, That on a time he cast him to scold, And sneb the good Oak, for he was old. why stand's there (quoth he) thou brutish block? Nor for fruit nor for shadow serves thy stock; Seest how fresh my flowres been spread, Died in lily white and crimson red, With leaves engrained in lusty green, Colours meet to cloath a maiden queen Thy waste bigness but cumbers the ground, And dirks the beauty of my blossoms round: The mouldy moss, which thee accloyeth, My cinnamon smell too much annoyeth: Wherefore soon I rede thee hence remove, Lest thou the price of my displeasure prove. So spake this bold Breere with great disdain, Little him answer'd the Oak again, But yielded, with shame and grief adaw'd, That of a weed he was over-craw’d. It chaunced after upon a day, The husband-man's self to come that way, Of custom to surview his ground, And his trees of state in compass round: Him when the spightful Breere had espyed, Causeless complained, and loudly cryed Unto his lord, stirring up stern strife: O my liege Lord! the god of my life, Please you pond your suppliant's plaint, Caused of wrong and cruell constraint, Which I your poor vassal daily endure; And but your goodness the same recure, An hke for desperate dole to die, Through felonous force of mine enemy. Greatly aghast with this piteous plea, Him rested the good man on the lea, And bad the Breere in his plaint proceed.

With painted words thogan this proud weed
(As most usen ambitious folk)
His colour'd crime with craft to cloke.
Ah, my Sovereign lord of creatures all,
Thou placer of plants both humble and tall,
Was not I planted of thine own hand,
To be the primrose of all thy land,
With flowring blossoms to furnish the prime,
And scarlet berries in sommer-time *
How falls it then that this faded Oak,
Whose body is sere, whose branches broke,
Whose naked arms stretch unto the fire,
Unto such tyranny doth aspire,
Hindring with his shade my lovely light,
And robbing me of the sweet sun's sight?
So beat his old boughs my tender side,
That oft the bloud springeth from woundes wide;
Untimely my flowers forced to fall,
That been the honour of your coronal;
And oft he lets his canker-worms light
Upon my branches, to work me more spight;
And of his hoary locks down doth cast,
Wherewith my fresh flowrets been defast:
For this, and many more such outrage,
Craving your godlyhead to assuage
The rancorous rigour of his might;
Nought ask I, but onely to hold my right,
Submitting me to your good sufferaunce,
And praying to be guarded from grievaunce.
To this this Oak cast him to reply
Well as he couth; but his enemy
Had kindled such coles of displeasure,
That the good man nould stay his leasure,
But home him hasted with furious heat,
Encreasing his wrath with many a threat;
His harmful hatchet he hent in hand,
(Alas! that it so ready should stand!)
And to the field alone he speedeth,
(Aye little help to harm there needeth)
Anger nould let him speak to the tree,
Enaunter his rage mought cooled be,
But to the root bent his sturdy stroak,
And made many wounds in the waste Oak.
The axe's edge did oft turn again,
As half unwilling to cut the grain,
Seemed the senseless iron did fear,
Or to wrong holy eld did forbear;
For it had been an antient tree,
Sacred with many a mystery,
And often crost with the priests’ crew,
And often hallowed with holy-water dew;
But like fancies weren foolery,
And broughten this Oak to this misery;
For nought mought they quitten him from decay,
For fiercely the good man at him did lay.
The block oft groaned under his blow,
And sighed to see his near overthrow.
In fine, the steel had pierced his pith,
Tho down to the ground he fell forthwith:
His wondrous weight made the ground to quake,
Th' earth shrunk under him, and seem'd to shake:
There lieth the Oak pitied of none.

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