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 Phœbus 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._ [Illustration: NOVEMBER AEGLOGA UNDECIMA COLIN'S EMBLEME] NOVEMBER. ÆGLOGA UNDECIMA. ARGUMENT. 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. 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 Phœbus, 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: