The mournfull Shepherdesse of Arcadiah. OR, The solitary sollitudes of the matchlesse Shepherdesse:
Whose earthly joy did shine with luster bright,
But now's eclips'd and turn'd to dismall night;
The Tune is, Tell me you wandring Spirits, &c.
ASsist me Muses with your power divine,
to portract out the sable plaints of mine,
Melpominy direct my warbling quill,
Descending down from high Pernassus hill
And sing in queers a heavenly harmony
Whilst I, whilst I for want of Clora fain would die.
I was a Shepherdesse of beauty, bright and fair
Indu'd with graces, honours passing rare,
And as the Phenix is more excellent,
Then all the birds under the firmament,
So was I counted, though I live forlorn
My joyes, my joyes are all transpos'd which makes me mourn
I flourish'd like the lovely Mary-gold,
Or damaske Roses beauteous to behold,
Whilst lustrous Phoebus with his splendor bright,
Did spread our blossomes with his glorious light,
Such operations had the powerfull sun,
But now, but now it is dissol'd, my joyes are done.
The rurall Swaines that were our friendly Mates
That knew our blisse, our joyes, and happy states,
Vnfainedly in hearts they did rejoyce,
To hear my Clora's swéet melodious voice,
His oaten reed did sound with pleasant glee,
But now, but now joyes is turn'd to misery,
With silver tones, his Bag-pipes chanted shril
(In height of glory on Pernassus hill,)
Whose harmony delighted all the Swaines,
That us'd to sport upon the lovely plains,
With dancing Galliards, Jigges, and Roundelayes,
And none, and none but Clora, Clora got the praise
When scorthing Tytan with his burning beames,
In midst of Summer was upon extreames;
Then to the gréen woods side he did convey
His pretty Lambs and Sheep to féed and play,
This was his care whilst Clora he did keep
In fields, in fields his render flock, & harmeles sheep.
The second part
to the same Tune
WHen blustering Boreas from the North blew cold
Then did he pen them safely in their Fold
And when that Winters bitter tempest came
His zealous care was to prevent the same,
But Clora's gone, unto another Sphear,
Instal'd, instal'd a Saint or blessed spirit there.
And since he's gone, whilst I am left alone,
The Rurall Swaines, with heaby sighs and moan
Do séem to call his to his place again,
But Oh alas, their wishes are in vain;
The harmelesse sheep, do seem to mourn and pinh,
Though he, though he, invested in with Saints divine
Our pretty Lambs are stragling gone astray,
(who wants a guide must surely loose his way)
The waters troubled where oun Heards did drink
And want that vertue to expell the stink,
His Crook and Scrip he left behind we see
For heaven, for heaven & glorious joyes more rarer be.
Th [...] whistling Black-bird, and the Nightingale,
Whose silver tones were stil'd heroical,
The Queristers both of the Woods and Fields,
Whose harmony melodious musick yéelds,
They'r metamorphoriz'd into sighs and cries,
Besides, besides the Swan that sings now mourning dies.
And I in pleasant story too have read,
That when the Turtle Dove is gone and dead
The Mate lives single in a mournfull state,
So wil I doe till death strikes out my date,
In sollitudes, and pensive heart excel,
Then shall, then shall the world confesse, I lov'd him well.
Oh that my date were out, my time were néer
That I might méet him whom I love so déer,
In high Olimpus heavens celestial throne
(A place prepar'd for blessed Saints alone.)
The world is sin, and naughty beside,
O that, O that my death had been when Clora died.
FINIS.
A. S.
London printed for Fran Grove on Snow-hill.