But since I am not as I wish I were, Ye gentle shepheards! which your flocks do feed, Whether on hills, or dales, or other where, Bear witness all of this so wicked deed; And tell the lass, whose flower is wox a weed, And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless fear, That she the truest shepheard's heart made bleed That lives on earth, and loved her most dear. HOB. O! careful Colin, I lament thy case; Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow! Ah! faithless Rosalind, and void of grace, That art the root of all this ruthful woe! But now is time, I guess, homeward to go: Then rise, ye blessed flocks! and home apace, Lest night with stealing steps do you foreslow, And wet your tender lambs that by you trace. COLIN'S EMBLEME. _Gia speme spenta._ (Already hope is lost.) [Illustration: JULY AEGLOGA SEPTIMA EMBLEMES] JULY. ÆGLOGA SEPTIMA. ARGUMENT. This Æglogue is made in the honour and commendation of good shepheards, and to the shame and dispraise of proud and ambitious pastors: such as Morrell is here imagined to be. THOMALIN. MORRELL.[11] THOMALIN. Is not thilk same a goatherd proud, That sits on yonder bank, Whose straying herd them self doth shroud Among the bushes rank? MOR. What, ho, thou jolly shepheard's swain, Come up the hill to me; Better is than the lowly plain, Als for thy flock and thee. THOM. Ah! God shield, man, that I should climb, And learn to look aloft; This rede is rife, that oftentime Great climbers fall unsoft. In humble dales is footing fast, The trode is not so tickle, And though one fall through heedless hast, Yet is his miss not mickle. And now the Sun[12] hath reared up His fiery-footed team, Making his way between the Cup And golden Diademe; The rampant Lion hunts he fast, With dogs of noisome breath, Whose baleful barking brings in hast Pine, plagues, and dreary death. Against his cruel scorching heat, Where thou hast coverture, The wasteful hills unto his threat Is a plain overture: But, if thee list to holden chat With seely shepheard's swain, Come down, and learn the little what, That Thomalin can sayn. MOR. Siker thou's but a lazy loord, And recks much of thy swink, That with fond terms, and witless words, To blear mine eyes dost think. In evil hour thou hentst in hand Thus holy hills to blame, For sacred unto saints they stand, And of them have their name. St. Michel's Mount who does not know, That wards the Western coast? And of St. Bridget's Bower I trow All Kent can rightly boast: And they that con of Muses' skill Sayn most-what, that they dwell (As goatherds wont) upon a hill, Beside a learned well. And wonned not the great good Pan