But our author, respecting neither the subtilty of the one part, nor the antiquity of the other, thinketh it fittest, according to the simplicity of common understanding, to begin with Januarie; weening it perhaps no _decorum_ that shepheards should be seen in matter of so deep insight, or canvass a case of so doubtful judgment. So therefore beginneth he, and so continueth he throughout. [Illustration: JANUARIE AEGLOGA PRIMA EMBLEME] THE SHEPHEARD'S CALENDER: JANUARIE. ÆGLOGA PRIMA. ARGUMENT. In this first Æglogue Colin Clout, a shepheard's boy, complaineth himself of his unfortunate love, being but newly (as seemeth) enamoured of a country lass called Rosalind: with which strong affection being very sore travailed, he compareth his careful case to the sad season of the year, to the frosty ground, to the frozen trees, and to his own winter-beaten flock. And lastly, finding himself robbed of all former pleasance and delight, he breaketh his pipe in pieces, and casteth himself to the ground. COLIN CLOUT. A shepheard's boy, (no better do him call,) When winter's wasteful spite was almost spent, All in a sunshine day, as did befall, Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent: So faint they wox, and feeble in the fold, That now unnethes their feet could them uphold. All as the sheep, such was the shepheard's look, For pale and wan he was, (alas the while!) May seem he lov'd, or else some care he took; Well couth he tune his pipe and frame his style: Then to a hill his fainting flock he led, And thus him plain'd, the while his sheep there fed: "Ye gods of love! that pity lovers' pain, (If any gods the pain of lovers pity,) Look from above, where you in joys remain, And bow your ears unto my doleful ditty. And, Pan! thou shepheards' god, that once didst love, Pity the pains that thou thyself didst prove. "Thou barren ground, whom winter's wrath hath wasted, Art made a mirror to behold my plight: Whilome thy fresh spring flower'd, and after hasted Thy summer proud, with daffodillies dight; And now is come thy winter's stormy state, Thy mantle marr'd wherein thou maskedst late. "Such rage as winter's reigneth in my heart, My life-blood freezing with unkindly cold; Such stormy stoures do breed my baleful smart, As if my year were waste and waxen old; And yet, alas! but now my spring begun, And yet, alas! it is already done. "You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost, Wherein the birds were wont to build their bower, And now are cloth'd with moss and hoary frost, Instead of blossoms, wherewith your buds did flower; I see your tears that from your boughs do rain, Whose drops in dreary icicles remain.