toward womankind. But yet let no man thinke, that herein I stand with Lucian, or his divelish disciple Unico Aretino, in defence of execrable and horrible sinnes of forbidden and unlawfull fleshlinesse. Whose abhominable errour is fully confuted of Perionius, and others.

I love, a pretie Eponorthosis in these two verses, and withal a paronomasia or playing with the word, where he saith I love thilke lasse alas, &c.

Rosalinde, is also a fained name, which, being well ardered, will bewray the verie name of his love and mistresse, whom by that name he coloureth. So as Ovid shadoweth his love under the name of Corynna, which of some is supposed to be Iulia, the Emperor Augustus his daughter, and wife to Agrippa. So doth Aruntius Stella every where call his Ladie, Asteris and Ianthes, albeit it is well knowne that her right name was Violantilla: as witnesseth Statius in his Epithalamium. And so the famous paragon of Italy, Madonna Cælia, in her letters envelopeth her self under the name of Zima, and Petrona under the name of Bellochia. And this generally hath beene a common custome of counterfeiting the names of secrete personages.

Avail, bring downe.

EMBLEME.

Over baile, draw over.

His Embleme or Posie is here under added in Italian, Anchora speme, the meaning whereof is, that notwithstanding his extreame passion and luckelesse love, yet, leaning on hope, he is somewhat recomforted.

VOL. VII.

FEBRUARIE.

AEGLOGA SECUNDA.

Argument.

THIS Aeglogue is rather morall and generall then bent to anie secret or particular purpose. It speciallie containeth a discourse of olde age, in the person of Tuenot, an old shepheard, who, for his crookednesse and unlustinesse, is scorned of Cuddie, an unhappie heardmans boy. The matter verie well accordeth with the season of the monet The yeare now drooping, and as it were drawing to his last age. For as in this time of yeare, so then in our bodies, there is a drie and withering cold, which congealeth the crudied blood, and frieseth the weatherbeaten flesh, with stormes of Fortune and hoare frosts of Care. To which purpose the olde man telieth a tale of the Oake and the Brier, so livelie, and so feelinglie, as if the thing were set forth in some picture before our eies, more plainlie could not appeare.

Аn for pittie! will rancke winters rage
These bitter blastes never gin t' asswage?
The kene cold blowes through my beaten hide,
All as I were through the body gride:
My ragged rontes all shiver and shake,
As doen high towers in an earthquake:
They woont in the winde wagge their wriggle tayles
Perke as a peacocke; but now it availes,
THE. Lewdly complainest thou, laesie ladde!
Of winters wracke for making thee sadde.

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10

Must not the worlde wend in his common course, From good to bad, and from bad to worse, From worse unto that is worst of all, And then returne to his former fall? Who will not suffer the stormie time, Where will he live till the lustie prime? Selfe have I worne out thrise thirtie yeres, Some in much ioy, many in many teares,

15

Yet never complained of cold nor heate,

Of sommers flame, nor of winters threate,

20

Ne ever was to Fortune foeman,
But gently tooke that ungently came;
And ever my flocke was my chiefe care;
Winter or sommer they mought well fare.
CUD. No marveile, Thenot! if thou can beare
Cherefully the winters wrathfull cheare;

For age and winter accord full nie,

This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wryes
And as the lowring wether lookes downe,

26

So seemst thou like Good Friday to frowne: 30 But my flouring youth is foe to frost,

My shippe unwont in stormes to be tost.

THE. The soveraigne of seas he blames in vaine,

That, once sea-beate, will to sea againe:

So loytring live you little heardgroomes,
Keeping your beastes in the budded broomes;

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Ver. 30 So seemest thou like Good Friday to frowne;] This, I presume, is a proverbial expression. Good. Friday is said to frown, as being a fast-day. Thus a Lenten face is used to deno minate sourness and severity of aspect.-T. WARTON.

And, when the shining sunne laugheth once,
You deemen, the spring is come attonce;
Tho ginne you, fond Flies! the cold to scorne,
And, crowing in pypes made of greene corne, 40
You thinken to be lords of the yeare;

But eft, when ye count you freed from feare,
Comes the breme Winter with chamfred browes,
Full of wrinckles and frosty furrowes,
Drerily shooting his stormie darte,

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Which cruddles the bloud and pricks the harte :
Then is your carelesse courage accoyed,
Your carefull heards with cold bene annoyed:
Then pay you the price of your surquedrie,
With weeping, and wailing, and miserie.

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CUD. Ah! foolish old man! I scorne thy skill, That wouldst me my springing youth to spill: I deeme thy braine emperished bee Through rustie elde, that hath rotted thee; Or sicker thy head verie tottie is, So on thy corbe shoulder it leanes amisse. Now thy selfe hath lost both lopp and topp, Als my budding braunch thou wouldest cropp; But were thy yeres greene, as now bene mine, To other delightes they would encline: Tho wouldest thou learne to caroll of love, And hery with hymnes thy lasses glove; Tho wouldest thou pype of Phillis praise; But Phillis is mine for many dayes; I wonne her with a girdle of gelt, Embost with buegle about the belt:

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Such an one shepheards would make full faine;
Such an one would make thee young againe.

THE. Thou art a fon, of thy love to boste ; All that is lent to love will be loste. 70

CUD. Seest how brag yond bullocke beares,
So smirke, so smoothe, his pricked eares?
His hornes bene as broade as rainehow bent,
His dewelap as lythe as lasse of Kent:
See how he venteth into the winde;
Weenest of love is not his minde?

Seemeth thy flocke thy counsell can,

So lustlesse bene they, so weake, so wan;
Clothed with cold, and hoarie with frost,
Thy flockes father his courage hath lost.
Thy ewes, that woont to have blowen bags,
Like waile full widdowes hangen their crags;
The rather lambes bere starved with cold,
Ail for their maister is lustlesse and old.

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THE. Cuddie! I wote thou kenst little good, So vainely to advaunce thy headlesse hood; 86 For youngth is a bubble, blowne up with breath, Whose witte is weakenesse, whose wage is death, Whose way is wildernesse, whose ynne penaunce, And stoope gallaunt Age, the hoast of Greevaunce. But shall I tell thee a tale of truth,

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Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth,
Keeping his sheepe on the hilles of Kent? [bent

CUD. To nought more, Thenot! my minde is

Then to heare novells of his devise;

They bene so well thewed, and so wise,

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