HOB. Colin, to hear thy rhymes and roundelays, Which thou wert wont on wasteful hills to sing, I more delight than lark in summer days, Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring, And taught the birds, which in the lower spring Did shroud in shady leaves from sunny rays, Frame to thy song their cheerful chirruping, Or hold their peace, for shame of thy sweet lays. I saw Calliope with Muses moe, Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound, Their ivory lutes and tambourins forgo, And from the fountain, where they sat around, Run after hastily thy silver sound; But, when they came where thou thy skill didst shew, They drew aback, as half with shame confound Shepheard to see, them in their art outgo. COL. Of Muses, Hobbinol, I con no skill, For they be daughters of the highest Jove, And holden scorn of homely shepheard's quill; For sith I heard that Pan with Phœbus strove, Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, I never list presume to Parnass hill, But, piping low in shade of lowly grove, I play to please myself, all be it ill. Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame, Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest: With shepheard sits not follow flying Fame, But feed his flock in fields where falls them best. I wot my rhymes be rough, and rudely drest; The fitter they my careful case to frame: Enough is me to paint out my unrest, And pour my piteous plaints out in the same. The god of shepheards, Tityrus,[10] is dead, Who taught me homely, as I can, to make: He, whilst he lived, was the sovereign head Of shepheards all that be with love ytake; Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly slake The flames which love within his heart had bred, And tell us merry tales to keep us wake, The while our sheep about us safely fed. Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead, (O why should Death on him such outrage shew!) And all his passing skill with him is fled, The fame whereof doth daily greater grow. But, if on me some little drops would flow Of that the spring was in his learned head, I soon would learn these woods to wail my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed. Then should my plaints, caus'd of discourtesy, As messengers of this my painful plight, Fly to my love where ever that she be, And pierce her heart with point of worthy wite, As she deserves, that wrought so deadly spite. And thou, Menalcas! that by treachery Didst underfong my lass to wax so light, Shouldst well be known for such thy villany.