Ianuarie.
All as the Sheepe, ſuch was the Shepeheards looke,
For pale and wanne bee was, (alas the while,)
Day ſeeme hee lovd, or els ſome care hee tooke:
Well couth hee tune his pipe and frame his ſtile.
Tho to a hill his fainting flocke hee ledde,
And thus him playnde, the while his ſheepe there fedde.
Yee Gods of loue, that pitie laners paine,
(If any gods the paine of louers pitie:)
Looke front aboue, where you in ioyes remaine,
And bow your cares bnto my dolefull dittie.
And Pan thou ſheepeheards God, that once didſt loue,
Pitie the paines, that thou thy felfe didſt proue,
Thou barraine ground, whom winters wath hath wafted,,
Art made a myrrhour, to beholde my plight:
Whilome thy freſh ſpring flowid, and after haſted
Thy ſommer prowde with Daffadillies bight.
And now is come thy winters ſtormie ſtate,
Thy mantle mard, wherein thou maſ-kedſt late,
Such rage as winters, raigneth in my hart,
My life bloud frieſing with unkindly cold:
Such ſtormie ſtoures do breede my balefull ſmart,
As if my yeare were waſt, and woren old.
And yet alas, but now my ſpring begonne,
And yet alas, it is already donne.
You naked trees, whofe ſhadie leaues are loft,
Wherein the birds were wont to build their howze:
And now are clothd with moſſe and hoarie froſt,
In ſteede of bloſſomes, wherewith your buds did flowre:
I ſee your teares, that from your boughes doe raine,
Whoſe drops tn drerye yſicles remaine.
All ſo my luſtfull leafe is drie and ſere;
My timely buds with wayling all are waſted:
The bloflome, which my braunch of youth did beare,
With breathed ſighes is blowne away, and blaſted,
And
