# The Shepheard's Calender (Crane)/Januarie

| | ·JANUARIE· ·AEGLOGA· ·PRIMA·❦ |
| ·EMBLEM· | |
THE SHEPHEARD’S
CALENDER:
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.
“All so my lustful leaf is dry and sere,
My timely buds with wailing all are wasted;
The blossom which my branch of youth did bear,
With breathed sighs is blown away and blasted;
And from mine eyes the drizzling tears descend,
As on your boughs the icicles depend.
“Thou feeble flock! whose fleece is rough and rent,
Whose knees are weak through fast and evil fare,
Mayst witness well, by thy ill government,
Thy master’s mind is overcome with care:
Thou weak, I wan; thou lean, I quite forlorn:
With mourning pine I; you with pining mourn.
​“A thousand siths I curse that careful hour
Wherein I long’d the neighbour town to see,
And eke ten thousand siths I bless the stoure
Wherein I saw so fair a sight as she:
Yet all for naught: such sight hath bred my bane.
Ah, God! that love should breed both joy and pain!
“It is not Hobbinol wherefore I plain,
Albe my love he seek with daily suit;
His clownish gifts and court’sies I disdain,
His kids, his cracknels, and his early fruit.
Ah, foolish Hobbinol! thy gifts be vain;
Colin them gives to Rosalind again.
“I love thilk lass, (alas! why do I love?)
And am forlorn, (alas! why am I lorn?)
She deigns not my good will, but doth reprove,
And of my rural music holdeth scorn.
Shepheard’s device she hateth as the snake,
And laughs the songs that Colin Clout doth make.
“Wherefore, my pipe, albe rude Pan thou please,
Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would;
And thou, unlucky Muse, that wont’st to ease
My musing mind, yet canst not when thou should;
Both Pipe and Muse shall sore the while abye.”
So broke his oaten pipe, and down did lie.
By that, the welked Phœbus gan availe
His weary wain; and now the frosty Night
Her mantle black through heaven gan overhale:
Which seen, the pensive boy, halfin despite,
Arose, and homeward drove his sunned sheep,
Whose hanging heads did seem his careful case to weep.
COLIN’S EMBLEME.
Ancora speme.