[Page] The Tragedy of Phillis, complaining of the disloyall love of AMINTAS. To a new Court tune.
AMintas on a Summers day,
to shun Apollo's beames,
Was driving of his flocks away,
to taste some cooling streames:
And through a Forrest as he went,
hard by a Rivers side,
A voyce which from a Grove was sent
invited him to bide.
The voyce well seem'd for to bewray
some male-contented mind,
For oftimes did he he are it say,
ten thousand times unkind:
The remnant of that raging mone
did all escape his eare,
For every word brought forth a grone,
and every grone teare.
And neerer when he did repaire,
both face and voyce he knew,
He saw that Phillis was come there,
her plaints for to renew:
Thus leaving her unto her plaints,
and sorrow-flaking grones,
He heard her deadly discontents,
thus all breake forth at once.
Amintas, is my love to thee,
of such a light account,
That thou disdain'st to looke on me,
or love as thou wert wont:
Were those the oaths that thou didst make,
the vowes thou didst conceive,
When I for thy contentments sake,
mine hearts delight did leave:
How oft didst thou protest to me,
the heavens should turne to nought,
The Sun should first obscuted be,
ere thou wouldst change thy thought:
Then heaven dissolve without delay,
Sun shew thy face no more,
Amintas love is lost for aye,
and woe is me therefore.
Well might I, if I had beene wise,
foreseene what now I find,
But too much love did fill mine eyes,
and made my judgement blind:
But ah, alas! th'effect doth prove,
thy drifts are but deceit,
For true and undissembled love,
will never turne to hate.
All thy behaviours were (God knowes)
too smooth and too discreet,
Like Sugar which impoysoned growes,
suspect because it's sweet:
Thine oaths and vowes did promise more
then well thou couldst performe,
Much like a calme that comes before
an unexpected storme.
God knowes it would grieve me much
for to be kil'd for thee.
But oh! too neere it doth me touch,
that thou shouldst murder me:
God knowes I care not for the paine
can come for losse of breath,
Tis thy unkindnesse cruell Swaine,
that grieves me to the death.
Amintas tell me if thou may,
if any fault of mine,
Hath given thee cause thus to betray
mine hearts delight and shine?
No, no, alas, it could not be,
my love to thee was such,
Unlesse that if I urged thee,
in loving thee too much.
But ah, alas! What doe I gaine,
by those my fond complaints?
My dolour doubles thy disdaine,
my griefe thy joy augments:
Although it yeeld no greater good,
it oft deth ease my mind,
For to reproach th'ingratitude
of him who is unkind.
With that her hand, cold, wan, and pale,
upon her brest she layes,
And seeing that her breath did faile,
she sighes and then she sayes;
Amintas, and with that poore Maid,
she sigh'd againe full sore,
That after that she never said,
nor sigh'd, nor breath'd no more.
FINIS.
M.A.
The complaint of the Shepheard Harpalus To a pleasant new tune.
POore Harpalus, opprest with love,
sate by a Chrystall Brooke,
Thinking his sorrowes to remove,
ofttimes therein did looke:
And hearing how on pibble stones,
the murmuring River ran,
As if it had bewaild his grons,
unto it thus began:
Faire streames (quoth he) that pitties me,
and heares my matchlesse mone,
If thou be going to the Sea,
as I doe now suppone:
Attend my plaints past all reliefe,
which dolefully I breath
Acquaint the Sea-nymphs with the griefe
which still procures my death.
Who sitting in the cliffy Rocks,
may in their songs expresse,
While as they combe their golden locks,
poore Harpalus distresse:
And so perhaps some Passenger,
that passeth by the way,
May stay and listen for to heare,
them sing this dolefull Lay.
Poore Harpalus a Shepheard Swaine,
more rich in youth than store,
Lov'd faire Philena, haplesse man,
Philena, oh therefore!
Who still remorecelesse hearted Maid,
tooke pleasure in his paine,
And his good will, poore sonle, repaid
with undeserv'd disdaine.
Nere Shepheard loved Shepheardesse
more faithfully then he,
Nere Shepheard yet beloved lesse
of Shepheardesse could be:
How oft did he with dying lookes,
to her his woes impart.
How oft his sighes did testifie
the dolour of his heart.
How oft from Valleys to the Hills,
did he his griefe rehearse?
How oft re-ecchoed they his ills,
aback againe (alas?)
How oft on Barkes of stately Pines,
of Beech, of Holly-greene,
Did he ingrave in mournfull lines,
the griefe he did sustaine?
Yet all his plaints could have no place,
to change Philena's mind,
The more his sorrowes did increase,
the more she prov'd unkind:
The thought thereof with wearied care
poore Harpalus did move,
That overcome with high despaire,
he lost both life and love.
Finis.
London, Printed by E.P. for Francis Coles in the Old-Bayley.