"The fragrant flowers, that in my garden grew, Be withered, as they had been gathered long: Their roots be dried up for lack of dew, Yet dewed with tears they have been ever among. Ah! who has wrought my Rosalind this spite, To spoil the flowers that should her garland dight? "And I, that whilome wont to frame my pipe Unto the shifting of the shepheard's foot, Such follies now have gathered as too ripe, And cast them out as rotten and unsoote. The looser lass I cast to please no more; One if I please, enough is me therefore. "And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedy crop of care; Which, when I thought have thresh'd in swelling sheave, Cockle for corn, and chaff for barley, bare: Soon as the chaff should in the fan be fin'd, All was blown away of the wavering wind. "So now my year draws to his latter term, My spring is spent, my summer burnt up quite; My harvest hastes to stir up Winter stern, And bids him claim with rigorous rage his right: So now he storms with many a sturdy stour; So now his blust'ring blast each coast doth scour. "The careful cold hath nipt my rugged rind, And in my face deep furrows eld hath pight: My head besprent with hoary frost I find, And by mine eye the crow his claw doth write: Delight is laid abed; and pleasure past; No sun now shines; clouds have all overcast. "Now leave, ye shepheards' boys, your merry glee; My Muse is hoarse and weary of this stound: Here will I hang my pipe upon this tree, Was never pipe of reed did better sound: Winter is come that blows the bitter blast, And after winter dreary death does hast. "Gather together, ye my little flock, My little flock, that was to me so lief; Let me, ah! let me in your folds ye lock, Ere the breme winter breed you greater grief. Winter is come, that blows the baleful breath, And after winter cometh timely death. "Adieu, delights, that lulled me asleep; Adieu, my dear, whose love I bought so dear; Adieu, my little lambs and loved sheep; Adieu, ye woods, that oft my witness were: Adieu, good Hobbinol, that was so true, Tell Rosalind, her Colin bids her adieu." COLIN'S EMBLEME. _Vivitur ingenio: cætera mortis erunt._ (The creations of genius live; other things shall be the prey of death.) EPILOGUE.