University of Virginia Library

13. [Amintas]

Amintas on a summer day
To shunn Appollos beames
Was dryving of his flocks away
To tast some cooling streames,
And through a Forrest as he went
Neare to a River side,
A voice which from a Grove was sent
Invited him to bide.
The voice well seem'd for to bewray
Some male contented minde,
For oft tymes did he heare it say
Ten thousand tymes vnkinde.
The remnant of that ragged mone
Did all escape his eare,
For every word brought forth a grone
And every grone a teare.
But nearer when he did repaire
Both voice and face he knew,
And see that Phillis was come there
Her plaints for to renew.
Soe leaving her to her complaint
And murrmering ragged mones,
He heard her fully discontent
Thus all burst forth at once.
Amintas, is my love to the
Of such a small account
That thou disdaines to looke on mee
Or love mee as thou wont?
Were those the Oathes that thou did make,
The Vowes thou did Conceive,
When I for thy Contentments sake
My hearts delight did leave?
How oft did thou protest to mee
The Heavens should turne to nought,
The sunn should first obscured be
Or thou should change thy thought?
Then Heavens dissolve without delay,
Sunn show thy face noe more,
Amintas love is lost for aye,
And woe is mee therefore.
Well might I if I had been wise
Foreseene what now I finde,
But too much love did seale myne eyes
And made my Iudgement blinde.
All thy behaviours were, god knowes,
Too smooth and too discreete,
Like sugar which impoyson'd growes
Vnspy'd because it's sweete.
Thy Oathes and vowes did promise more
Nor well they could performe,
Most like a calme which comes before
An vnexpected storme.
God knowes, it would not greive mee much
For to be kill'd for thee,
But, ah, how neare it doth me tuch
That thou should murther mee.
God knowes, I care not, for noe paine
Can come for loss of breath,
Its thy vnkindness, cruell swaine,
That greives mee to the death.
Amyntas, tell me, if thow may,
If any fault of myn
Hath giv'n the cause thus to betray
My hearts delyt and thyn?
No, no, alas, It could not be
My loue to the was such,
Vnles if that thow loathed me
For loving the too much.
But, ah, alas, what doe I gaine
By those my fond complaints?
My dolour doubles his disdaine,
My greife his pride augments.
Although it yeeld noe greater good,
It oft doth ease my minde
For to reproach the ingrattitude
Of him who is vnkinde.
With that her hand, Cold, wan, and pale,
Vpon her breast she layed,
And finding that her breath did faile
She sight and then she sayed,
Amintas; and with that, poore maid,
She sight againe soe sore
That after that she never said,
Nor sight, nor breath'd noe more.