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The vnknowne Sheepheards complaint.
My Flocks feede not, my Ewes breede not,
My Rammes speede not, all is amisse:
Loue is denying, Faith is defying,
Harts renying, causer of this.
All my merry Iiggs are quite forgot,
All my Ladies loue is lost God wot.
Where her faith was firmely fixt in loue,
There a nay is plac'd without remoue.
One silly crosse, wrought all my losse,
O frowning Fortune, cursed fickle Dame:
For now I see, inconstancie
More in vvomen then in men remaine.
My Rammes speede not, all is amisse:
Loue is denying, Faith is defying,
Harts renying, causer of this.
All my merry Iiggs are quite forgot,
All my Ladies loue is lost God wot.
Where her faith was firmely fixt in loue,
There a nay is plac'd without remoue.
One silly crosse, wrought all my losse,
O frowning Fortune, cursed fickle Dame:
For now I see, inconstancie
More in vvomen then in men remaine.
In black mourne I, all feares scorne I,
Loue hath forlorne me, liuing in thrall:
Hart is bleeding, all helpe needing,
O cruell speeding, fraughted with gall.
My Sheepheards pipe can sound no deale,
My Weathers bell rings dolefull knell.
My curtaile dogge that wont to haue plaide,
Playes not at all, but seemes afraide.
With sighs so deepe, procures to weepe,
In howling-wise, to see my dolefull plight:
How sighs resound, through hartlesse ground,
Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight.
Loue hath forlorne me, liuing in thrall:
Hart is bleeding, all helpe needing,
O cruell speeding, fraughted with gall.
My Sheepheards pipe can sound no deale,
My Weathers bell rings dolefull knell.
My curtaile dogge that wont to haue plaide,
Playes not at all, but seemes afraide.
With sighs so deepe, procures to weepe,
In howling-wise, to see my dolefull plight:
How sighs resound, through hartlesse ground,
Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight.
Cleare Wells spring not, sweet birds sing not,
Greene plants bring not foorth their die:
Heards stand weeping, Flocks all sleeping,
Nimphs back peeping fearefully.
All our pleasure knowne to vs poore Swaines,
All our merry meeting on the Plaines.
All our euening sports from vs are fled,
All our loue is lost, for Loue is dead.
Farewell sweete Loue, thy like nere was,
For sweete content, the cause of all my moane:
Poore Coridon must liue alone,
Other helpe for him, I see that there is none.
Greene plants bring not foorth their die:
Heards stand weeping, Flocks all sleeping,
Nimphs back peeping fearefully.
All our pleasure knowne to vs poore Swaines,
All our merry meeting on the Plaines.
All our euening sports from vs are fled,
All our loue is lost, for Loue is dead.
For sweete content, the cause of all my moane:
Poore Coridon must liue alone,
Other helpe for him, I see that there is none.
FINIS.
Ignoto.
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