The Tragedie of Phillis, complaining of the disloyall
Love of Amyntas. To a pleasant new Court Tune.
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AMyntas on a Summers day,
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to shunne Apollo's beames,
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Was driving of his flockes away,
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to taste some cooling streames,
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And through a Forrest as he went,
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unto a river side,
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A voyce which from a grove was sent
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invited him to bide.
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The voyce well seem'd for to bewray
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some mal-contented minde:
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For oft times did he heare it say,
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Ten thousand times unkind.
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The remnant of that raging mone,
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did all escape his eare:
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For every word brought forth a grone,
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and every grone a teare.
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And neerer when he did repaire,
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both face and voyce he knew:
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He saw that Phillis was come there,
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her plaints for to renew:
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Thus leaving her unto her plaints,
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and sorrow-slaking grones:
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He heard her deadly discontents,
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thus all breake forth at once.
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Amyntas, is my love to thee
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of such a light account,
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That thou disdainst to looke on mee,
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or love as thou wast wont?
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Were those the oathes that thou didst make,
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the vowes thou didst conceive,
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When I for thy contentments sake,
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mine hearts delight did leave?
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How oft didst thou protest to me,
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the Heavens should turne to nought:
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The Sunne should first obscured be,
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er'e thou wouldst change thy thought?
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Then Heaven, dissolve without delay:
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Sunne shew thy face no more,
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Amyntas love is lost for aye,
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and woe is me therefore.
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Well might I, if I had beene wise,
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foreseene what now I finde:
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But too much love did fill mine eyes,
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and made my judgement blinde:
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But ah, alas! the'effect doth prove,
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thy drifts were but deceit,
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For true and undissembled love,
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will never turne to hate.
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All thy behavours were (God knowes)
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too smooth and too discreet:
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Like Sugar which impoysoned growes,
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suspect because its sweet:
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Thine oathes & vowes did promise more
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then well thou couldst performe,
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Much like a clame that comes before
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an unsuspected storme.
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God knowes, it would not greeve me much
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for to be killd for thee:
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But oh! too neere it doth me touch,
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that thou shouldst murther me:
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God knowes, I care not for the paine
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can come for losse of breath:
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'Tis thy unkindnesse, cruell Swaine,
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that grieves me to the death.
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Amyntas, tell me, if thou may,
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if any fault of mine
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Hath given thee cause thus to betray
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mine hearts delight and thine?
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No no alas it could not be,
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my love to thee was such,
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Unlesse if that I urged thee,
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in loving thee too much.
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But ah; alas, what doe I gaine,
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by these my fond complaints?
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My dolour double thy disdaine,
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my griefe thy joy augments:
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Although it yeeld no greater good,
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it oft doth ease my mind:
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For to reproch th'ingratitude
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of him who is unkind.
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With that her hand cold, wan, and pale,
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upon her brest she layes:
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And seeing that her breath did faile,
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she sighes, and then she saies,
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Amyntas; and with that poore maid,
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she sigh'd againe full sore:
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That after that she never said,
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nor sigh'd nor breath'd no more.
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