The Shepheardes Calender: December Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: A BCBCDDEFEFGG CGCGGG HCHCGG GAGAGG HGHGII JKJKAA CGCGLL GLGLGG EEEEGG EEEEEE MAJAFF AGAGAA EGEGLL JJJJFF GGGGGG GNGNLL GEGEFF OHOHGG FGFGEE PEQEGG AGLGEE GGGGGG MGMGGG HIHINN FMFMMM AM

December gloga DuodecimaA
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He gentle shepheard satte beside a springeB
All in the shadowe of a bushy brereC
That Colin hight which wel could pype and singeB
For he of Tityrus his songs did lereC
There as he satte in secreate shade aloneD
Thus gan he make of loue his piteous moneD
O soueraigne Pan thou God of shepheards allE
Which of our tender Lambkins takest keepeF
And when our flocks into mischaunce mought fallE
Doest save from mischeife the vnwary sheepeF
Als of their maisters hast no lesse regardeG
Then of the flocks which thou doest watch and wardG
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I thee beseche so be thou deigne to heareC
Rude ditties tund to shepheards Oaten reedeG
Or if I euer sonet song so cleareC
As it with pleasaunce mought thy fancie feedeG
Hearken awhile from thy greene cabinetG
The rurall song of carefull ColinetG
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Whilome in youth when flowrd my ioyfull springH
Like Swallow swift I wandred here and thereC
For heate of heedlesse lust me so did stingH
That I of doubted daunger had no feareC
I went the wastefull woodes and forest wydeG
Withouten dreade of Wolues to bene espyedG
-
I wont to raunge amydde the mazie thicketteG
And gather nuttes to make me Christmas gameA
And ioyed oft to chace the trembling PricketG
Or hunt the hartlesse hare til shee were tameA
What wreaked I of wintrye ages wasteG
Tho deemed I my spring would euer lasteG
-
How often haue I scaled the craggie OkeH
All to dislodge the Rauen of her nesteG
Howe haue I wearied with many a strokeH
The stately Walnut tree the while the restG
Vnder the tree fell all for nuts at strifeI
For ylike to me was libertee and lyfeI
-
And for I was in thilke same looser yearesJ
Whether the Muse so wrought me from my birthK
Or I tomuch beleeued my shepherd peresJ
Somedele ybent to song and musicks mirthK
A good olde shephearde Wrenock was his nameA
Made me by arte more cunning in the sameA
-
Fro thence I durst in derring doe compareC
With shepheards swayne what euer fedde in fieldG
And if that Hobbinol right iudgement bareC
To Pan his owne selfe pype I neede not yieldG
For if the flocking Nymphes did folow PanL
The wiser Muses after Colin ranneL
-
But ah such pryde at length was ill repaydeG
The shepheards God perdie God was he noneL
My hurtlesse pleasaunce did me ill vpbraideG
My freedome lorne my life he lefte to moneL
Loue they him called that gaue me checkmateG
But better mought they haue behote him HateG
-
Tho gan my louely Spring bid me farewelE
And Sommer season sped him to displayE
For loue then in the Lyons house did dwellE
The raging fyre that kindled at his rayE
A comett stird vp that vnkindly heateG
That reigned as men sayd in Venus seateG
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Forth was I ledde not as I wont aforeE
When choise I had to choose my wandring wayeE
But whether luck and loues vnbridled loreE
Would leade me forth on Fancies bitte to playeE
The bush my bedde the bramble was my bowreE
The Woodes can witnesse many a wofull stowreE
-
Where I was wont to seeke the honey BeeM
Working her formall rowmes in Wexen frameA
The grieslie Todestool growne there mought I seJ
And loathed Paddocks lording on the sameA
And where the chaunting birds luld me a sleepeF
The ghastlie Owle her grieuous ynne doth keepeF
-
Then as the springe giues place to elder timeA
And bringeth forth the fruite of sommers prydeG
Also my age now passed yougthly prymeA
To thinges of ryper reason selfe applyedG
And learnd of lighter timber cotes to frameA
Such as might saue my sheepe and me fro shameA
-
To make fine cages for the NightingaleE
And Baskets of bulrushes was my wontG
Who to entrappe the fish in winding saleE
Was better seene or hurtful beastes to hontG
I learned als the signes of heauen to kenL
How Phoebe sayles where Venus sittes and whenL
-
And tryed time yet taught me greater thingesJ
The sodain rysing of the raging seasJ
The soothe of byrds by beating of their wingsJ
The power of herbs both which can hurt and easeJ
And which be wont tenrage the restlesse sheepeF
And which be wont to worke eternall sleepeF
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But ah vnwise and witlesse Colin clouteG
That kydst the hidden kinds of many a wedeG
Yet kydst not ene to cure thy sore hart rooteG
Whose ranckling wound as yet does rifely bleedeG
Why liuest thou stil and yet hast thy deathes woundG
Why dyest thou stil and yet aliue art foundeG
-
Thus is my sommer worne away and wastedG
Thus is my haruest hastened all to ratheN
The eare that budded faire is burnt blastedG
And all my hoped gaine is turned to scatheN
Of all the seede that in my youth was sowneL
Was nought but brakes and brambles to be mowneL
-
My boughes with bloosmes that crowned were at firsteG
And promised of timely fruite such storeE
Are left both bare and barrein now at erstG
The flattring fruite is fallen to grownd beforeE
And rotted ere they were halfe mellow ripeF
My haruest wast my hope away dyd wipeF
-
The fragrant flowres that in my garden greweO
Bene withered as they had bene gathered longH
Theyr rootes bene dryed vp for lacke of deweO
Yet dewed with teares they han be euer amongH
Ah who has wrought my Ro s alind this spightG
To spil the flowres that should her girlond dightG
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And I that whilome wont to frame my pypeF
Vnto the shifting of the shepheards footeG
Sike follies nowe haue gathered as too ripeF
And cast hem out as rotten an vnsooteG
The loser Lasse I cast to please nomoreE
One if I please enough is me thereforeE
-
And thus of all my haruest hope I haueP
Nought reaped but a weedye crop of careE
Which when I thought haue thresht in swelling sheaueQ
Cockel for corne and chaffe for barley bareE
Soone as the chaffe should in the fan be fyndG
All was blowne away of the wauering wyndG
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So now my yeare drawes to his latter termeA
My spring is spent my sommer burnt vp quiteG
My harueste hasts to stirre vp winter sterneL
And bids him clayme with rigorous rage hys rightG
So nowe he stormes with many a sturdy stoureE
So now his blustring blast eche coste doth scoureE
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The carefull cold hath nypt my rugged ryndeG
And in my face deepe furrowes eld hath pightG
My head besprent with hoary frost I fyndG
And by myne eie the Crow his clawe dooth wrightG
Delight is layd abedde and pleasure pastG
No sonne now shines cloudes han all ouercastG
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Now leaue ye shepheards boyes yo u r merry gleeM
My Muse is hoarse and weary of thys stoundeG
Here will I hang my pype vpon this treeM
Was neuer pype of reede did better soundeG
Winter is come that blowes the bitter blasteG
And after Winter dreerie death does hastG
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Gather ye together my little flockeH
My little flock that was to me so liefeI
Let me ah lette me in your folds ye lockH
Ere the breme Winter breede you greater griefeI
Winter is come that blowes the balefull breathN
And after Winter commeth timely deathN
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Adieu delightes that lulled me asleepeF
Adieu my deare whose loue I bought so deareM
Adieu my little Lambes and loued sheepeF
Adieu ye Woodes that oft my witnesse wereM
Adieu good Hobbinol that was so trueM
Tell Rosalind her Colin bids her adieuM
-
Colins EmblemeA
Vivitur ingenio caetera mortis eruntM

Edmund Spenser



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