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The Sheepheards Ode.
Nights were short, and dayes were long,Blossomes on the Hawthorne hong,
Philomell (Night-Musiques King,)
Told the comming of the Spring:
Whose sweete-siluer-sounding-voyce,
Made the little birds reioyce,
Skipping light from spray to spray,
Till Aurora shew'd the day.
Scarse might one see, when I might see
(For such chaunces sudden be.)
A Sheepheard lying all a-lone.
Weepe he did, and his weeping
Made the fading flowers spring.
Daphnis was his name I weene,
Youngest Swaine of Sommers Queene.
When Aurora saw t'was he
Weepe she did for companie:
Weepe she did for her sweet Sonne,
That (when antique Troy was wonne)
Suffer'd death by lucklesse Fate,
Whom she now laments too late:
And each morning (by Cocks crewe)
Showers downe her siluer dewe,
Whose teares falling from their spring,
Giue moisture to each liuing thing
That on earth encrease and grow,
Through power of their friendly foe.
Whose effect when Flora felt,
Teares that did her bosome melt,
(For who can resist teares often,
But she whom no teares can soften?)
Peering straite aboue the banks,
Shew'd her selfe to giue her thanks.
Wondring thus at Natures worke
(Wherein many meruailes lurke)
Me thought I heard a dolefull noyse,
Consorted with a mournfull voyce,
Drawing neere, to heare more plaine,
Heare I did, vnto my paine,
(For who is not pain'd to heare
Him in griefe whom hart holds deere?)
Silly Swaine with griefe ore-gone
Thus to make his pitteous mone.
Loue I did, alas the while,
Loue I did but did beguile
My deere Loue with louing so,
Whom as then I did not know.
That these fields did ere enioy.
Loue I did faire Ganimede,
Uenus darling, beauties bed:
Him I thought the fairest creature,
Him the quintessence of Nature.
But yet (alas) I was deceau'd,
(Loue of reason is bereau'd.)
For since then I saw a Lasse,
Lasse that did in beauty passe,
Passe faire Ganimede as farre
As Phæbus dooth the smallest starre
Loue commaunded me to loue,
Fancie bad me not remoue
My affection from the Swaine
Whom I neuer could obtaine:
(For who can obtaine that fauour
Which he cannot graunt the crauer?)
Loue at last (though loth) preuail'd,
Loue that so my hart assail'd,
Wounding me with her faire eyes
Ah how Loue can subtillize?
And deuise a thousand shifts
How to worke men to his drifts.
Her it is, for whom I mourne,
Her, for whom my life I scorne.
Her, for whom I weepe all day,
Her, for whom I sigh, and say
Eyther she, or else no creature
Shall enioy my loue: whose feature
Though I neuer can obtaine,
Yet shall my true-loue remaine:
Till (my body turn'd to clay)
My poore soule must passe away,
To the heauens; where I hope
It shall finde a resting scope.
Then since I loued thee alone,
Remember me when I am gone.
But me thought his hart was broken,
With great greefe that did abound,
(Cares and greefe the hart confound)
In whose hart thus riu'd in three,
Eliza written I might see
In Caracters of crimson blood,
Whose meaning well I vnderstood.
Which, for my hart might not behold:
I hied me home my Sheepe to fold.
FINIS.
Rich. Barnefielde.
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