 | Englands Helicon |  |
Another of the same subiect, but made as it were in aunswere.
On a goodly Sommers day,
Harpalus and Phillida,
He a true harted Swaine,
Shee full of coy disdaine,
droue their flocks to field:
He to see his Sheepheardesse,
She did dreame on nothing lesse,
Then his continuall care,
Which to grim-fac'd Dispaire,
wholely did him yield.
Corin she affected still,
All the more thy hart to kill.
Thy case dooth make me rue,
That thou should'st loue so true,
and be thus disdain'd:
While their flocks a feeding were,
They did meete together there.
Then with a curtsie lowe,
And sighs that told his woe,
thus to her he plain'd.
Harpalus and Phillida,
He a true harted Swaine,
Shee full of coy disdaine,
droue their flocks to field:
He to see his Sheepheardesse,
She did dreame on nothing lesse,
Then his continuall care,
Which to grim-fac'd Dispaire,
wholely did him yield.
Corin she affected still,
All the more thy hart to kill.
Thy case dooth make me rue,
That thou should'st loue so true,
and be thus disdain'd:
While their flocks a feeding were,
They did meete together there.
Then with a curtsie lowe,
And sighs that told his woe,
thus to her he plain'd.
Bide a while faire Phillida,
List what Harpalus will say
Onely in loue to thee,
Though thou respect not mee,
yet vouchsafe an eare:
To preuent ensuing ill,
Which no doubt betide thee will,
If thou doo not fore-see,
To shunne it presentlie,
then thy harme I feare.
Firme thy loue is, well I wot,
To the man that loues thee not.
Louely and gentle mayde,
Thy hope is quite betrayde,
which my hart doth greeue:
Corin is vnkind to thee,
Though thou thinke contrarie.
His loue is growne as light,
As is his Faulcons flight,
this sweet Nimph beleeue.
List what Harpalus will say
Onely in loue to thee,
Though thou respect not mee,
yet vouchsafe an eare:
Which no doubt betide thee will,
If thou doo not fore-see,
To shunne it presentlie,
then thy harme I feare.
Firme thy loue is, well I wot,
To the man that loues thee not.
Louely and gentle mayde,
Thy hope is quite betrayde,
which my hart doth greeue:
Corin is vnkind to thee,
Though thou thinke contrarie.
His loue is growne as light,
As is his Faulcons flight,
this sweet Nimph beleeue.
Mopsus daughter, that young mayde,
Her bright eyes his hart hath strayde
From his affecting thee,
Now there is none but shee
that is Corins blisse:
Phillis men the Virgin call,
She is Buxome, faire and tall,
Yet not like Phillida:
If I my mind might say,
eyes oft deeme amisse.
He commends her beauty rare,
Which with thine may not compare.
He dooth extoll her eye,
Silly thing, if thine were by,
thus conceite can erre:
He is rauish'd with her breath,
Thine can quicken life in death.
He prayseth all her parts,
Thine, winnes a world of harts,
more, if more there were.
Her bright eyes his hart hath strayde
From his affecting thee,
Now there is none but shee
that is Corins blisse:
Phillis men the Virgin call,
She is Buxome, faire and tall,
Yet not like Phillida:
If I my mind might say,
eyes oft deeme amisse.
He commends her beauty rare,
Which with thine may not compare.
He dooth extoll her eye,
Silly thing, if thine were by,
thus conceite can erre:
He is rauish'd with her breath,
Thine can quicken life in death.
He prayseth all her parts,
Thine, winnes a world of harts,
more, if more there were.
Looke sweet Nimph vpon thy flock,
They stand still, and now feede not,
As if they shar'd with thee:
Greefe for this iniurie,
offred to true loue.
Pretty Lambkins, how they moane,
And in bleating seeme to groane,
That any Sheepheards Swaine,
Should cause their Mistres paine:
by affects remoue.
If you looke but on the grasse,
It's not halfe so greene as 'twas:
When I began my tale,
But it is witherd pale,
all in meere remorce.
Marke the Trees that brag'd euen now,
Of each goodly greene-leau'd-bow,
They seeme as blasted all,
Ready for Winters fall,
such is true loues force.
As if they shar'd with thee:
Greefe for this iniurie,
offred to true loue.
Pretty Lambkins, how they moane,
And in bleating seeme to groane,
That any Sheepheards Swaine,
Should cause their Mistres paine:
by affects remoue.
If you looke but on the grasse,
It's not halfe so greene as 'twas:
When I began my tale,
But it is witherd pale,
all in meere remorce.
Marke the Trees that brag'd euen now,
Of each goodly greene-leau'd-bow,
They seeme as blasted all,
Ready for Winters fall,
such is true loues force.
The gentle murmur of the Springs,
Are become contrary things,
They haue forgot their pride,
And quite forsake their glide,
as if charm'd they stand.
And the flowers growing by,
Late so fresh in euery eye,
See how they hang the head,
As on a suddaine dead,
dropping on the sand.
The birds that chaunted it yer-while,
Ere they hear'd of Corins guile,
Sit as they were afraide,
Or by some hap dismaide,
for this wrong to thee:
Harke sweet Phil, how Philomell,
That was wont to sing so well,
Iargles now in yonder bush,
Worser then the rudest Trush,
as it were not shee.
Are become contrary things,
They haue forgot their pride,
And quite forsake their glide,
as if charm'd they stand.
And the flowers growing by,
Late so fresh in euery eye,
See how they hang the head,
As on a suddaine dead,
dropping on the sand.
The birds that chaunted it yer-while,
Ere they hear'd of Corins guile,
Sit as they were afraide,
Or by some hap dismaide,
for this wrong to thee:
Harke sweet Phil, how Philomell,
That was wont to sing so well,
Iargles now in yonder bush,
as it were not shee.
Phillida, who all this while
Neither gaue a sigh or smile:
Round about the field did gaze,
As her wits were in a maze,
poore despised mayd.
And reuiued at the last,
After streames of teares were past,
Leaning on her Sheepheards hooke,
With a sad and heauie looke,
thus poore soule she sayd.
Harpalus, I thanke not thee,
For this sorry tale to mee.
Meete me heere againe to morrow,
Then I will conclude my sorrow
mildly, if may be:
With their flocks they home doo fare,
Eythers hart too full of care,
If they doo meete againe,
Then what they furder sayne,
you shall heare from me.
Neither gaue a sigh or smile:
Round about the field did gaze,
As her wits were in a maze,
poore despised mayd.
And reuiued at the last,
After streames of teares were past,
Leaning on her Sheepheards hooke,
With a sad and heauie looke,
thus poore soule she sayd.
Harpalus, I thanke not thee,
For this sorry tale to mee.
Meete me heere againe to morrow,
Then I will conclude my sorrow
mildly, if may be:
With their flocks they home doo fare,
Eythers hart too full of care,
If they doo meete againe,
Then what they furder sayne,
you shall heare from me.
FINIS.
Shep. Tonie.
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