"O trustless state of earthly things, and slipper hope Of mortal men, that swink and sweat for nought, And, shooting wide, doth miss the marked scope; Now have I learn'd (a lesson dearly bought) That n'is on earth assurance to be sought; For what might be in earthly mould, That did her buried body hold? O heavy herse! Yet saw I on the bier when it was brought; O careful verse! "But maugre Death, and dreaded Sisters' deadly spite, And gates of hell, and fiery Furies' force, She hath the bonds broke of eternal night, Her soul unbodied of the burdenous corse. Why then weeps Lobbin so without remorse? O Lobb! thy loss no longer lament; Dido is dead, but into heaven hent. O happy herse! Cease now, my Muse, now cease thy sorrows' source, O joyful verse! "Why wail we then? why weary we the gods with plaints, As if some evil were to her betight? She reigns a goddess now among the saints, That whilome was the saint of shepheards light, And is installed now in heavens' height, I see thee, blessed soul! I see Walk in Elysian fields so free. O happy herse! Might I once come to thee, (O that I might!) O joyful verse! "Unwise and wretched men, to weet what's good or ill, We deem of death as doom of ill desert; But knew we, fools, what it us brings until, Die would we daily, once it to expert! No danger there the shepheard can assert; air fields and pleasant lays there bene; The fields aye fresh, the grass aye green. O happy herse! Make haste, ye shepheards, thither to revert. O joyful verse! "Dido is gone afore; (whose turn shall be the next?) There lives she with the blessed gods in bliss, There drinks she nectar with ambrosia mixt, And joys enjoys that mortal men do miss. The honour now of highest gods she is, That whilome was poor shepheards' pride, While here on earth she did abide. O happy herse! Cease now, my song, my woe now wasted is; O joyful verse!" THE. Ay, frank shepheard, how be thy verses meint With doleful pleasance, so as I ne wot Whether rejoice or weep for great constraint! Thine be the cosset, well hast thou it got. Up, Colin, up, enough thou mourned hast; Now 'gins to mizzle, his we homeward fast. COLIN'S EMBLEME. _La mort ny mord._ (Death has lost its sting.) [Illustration: DECEMBER AEGLOGA DUODECIMA COLIN'S EMBLEME] DECEMBER. ÆGLOGA DUODECIMA.[21] ARGUMENT.