University of Virginia Library

Phylida was a fayer mayde

Harpelus complaynt of Phillidaes loue bestowed on Corin, who loued her not and denied him, that loued her.

Phylida was a fayer mayde,
And fresh as any flowre:

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R3r

Whom Harpalus the herdman prayed
To be his paramour.
Harpalus and eke Corin
Were herdmen both yfere:
And Phillida could twist and spin
And therto sing full clere.
But Phillida was all to coy
For Harpelus to winne.
For Corin was her onely ioye,
Who forst her not a pynne.
How often would she flowers twine
How often garlandes make:
Of Couslippes and of Colombine,
And all for Corins sake.
But Corin he had haukes to lure
And forced more the field:
Of louers lawe he toke no cure
For once he was begilde.
Harpalus preualed nought
His labour all was lost:
For he was fardest from her thought
And yet he loued her most.
Therfore waxt he both pale and leane
And drye as clot of clay:
His fleshe it was consumed cleane
His colour gone away.
His beard it had not long be shaue,
His heare hong all vnkempt:
A man most fitte euen for the graue
Whom spitefull loue had spent.
His eyes were red and all forewatched
His face besprent with teares:
It semde vnhap had him long hatched.
In middes of his dispayres.
His clothes were blacke and also bare
As one forlorne was he:
Vpon his heade alwaies he ware,
A wreath of wilow tree.
His beastes he kept vpon the hyll,
And he sate in the dale:
And thus with sighes and sorowes shryll,
He gan to tell his tale.

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R3v

O Harpelus thus would he say,
Vnhappiest vnder sunne:
The cause of thine vnhappy day
By loue was first begone.
For thou wentest first by sute to seeke
A Tygre to make tame:
That sets not by thy loue a leke
But makes thy grefe her game.
As easye it were, for to conuert
The frost into the flame:
As for to turne a froward hert
Whom thou so fain wouldst frame.
Corin he liueth carelesse
He leapes among the leaues:
He eates the frutes of thy redresse
Thou reapes he takes the sheaues.
My beastes a while your fode refrayne
And herken your herdmans sounde:
Whom spitefull loue alas hath slaine
Throughgirt with many a wounde.
Oh happy be ye beastes wilde
That here your pasture takes:
I se that ye be not begylde
Of these your faythfull face.
The Hart he fedeth by the Hynde
The Bucke hard by the Doo,
The Turtle Doue is not vnkinde
To him that loues her so.
The Ewe she hath by her the Ramme
The yong Cow hath the Bulle:
The calf with many a lusty lamme
Do feede their honger full.
But wellaway that nature wrought
Thee Phillida so faire:
For I may say that I haue bought
Thy beauty all to deare.
What reason is it that cruelty
With beauty should haue part,
Or els that such great tyranny
Should dwell in womans hart.
I see therfore to shape my death
She cruelly is prest:

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R4r

To thend that I may want my breathe
My dayes been at the best.
O Cupide graunt this my request
And do not stoppe thine eares:
That she may fele within her brest
The paynes of my dispayres.
Of Corin that is carelesse
That she may craue her fee:
As I haue done in great distresse
That loued her faythfully.
But sins that I shall die her slaue
Her slaue and eke her thrall:
Write you my frendes, vpon my graue
This chance that is befall.
Here lieth vnhappy Harpelus
Whom cruell loue hath slayne:
By Phillida vniustly thus
Murdred with false disdaine.