The good Shepheards sorrow for the death ef his beloved
Sonne. To an excellent new tune.
|
IN sad and Ashy weeds,
|
I sigh, I pine, I grieve, I mourne:
|
My Oates and yellow reeds,
|
I now to Jet and Ebon turne.
|
My urged eyes like winter skies,
|
My furrowed cheekes ore-flow,
|
All heaven knows why men mourne as I
|
and who can blame my woe?
|
In Sable roabes of night,
|
My dayes of joy apparreld bee,
|
My sorrow sees no light,
|
my light through sorrowes nothing see,
|
For now my sonne his date hath runne,
|
And from his Sphere doth goe,
|
To endlesse bed of foulded lead,
|
and who can blame my woe?
|
My flockes I now forsake,
|
That senceles sheep my griefs may know
|
And lillies loath to take,
|
that since his sail presum'd to growe:
|
I envy ayre because it dare,
|
Still breath and he not soe.
|
Hate earth that doth intombe his youth,
|
and who can blame my woe?
|
Not I poore Lad aloane,
|
Aloane, how can such sorrows bee?
|
Not onely men make moane,
|
but more then men make mone with me
|
The Gods of greenes, the mountaine Queenes
|
The Faries circled Row:
|
The Muses nine the Nimphs divine,
|
and all condole my woe.
|
You awfull Gods of skie,
|
If Shepheards may you question thus,
|
What Diety to supply,
|
tooke you this gentle Starre from us?
|
Is Hermes fled? is Cupid dead?
|
Doth Sol his seat forgoe,
|
Or Jove his joy he stoole from Troy,
|
or who hath fram'd this woe?
|
Did not mine eyes, Oh heavens
|
Adore your light as well before,
|
But that amidst your seaven,
|
you fixed have one Plannet more:
|
You well may raise now double dayes,
|
On this sad earth below,
|
Your powers have won from us a Sonne
|
and who can blame my woe?
|
At your great hands I aske,
|
This boone, which you may easily graunt
|
That till my utmost maske
|
of death, I still may moane his want,
|
Since his Divine parts with you shine
|
Too bright for us below:
|
And earths sad brest entombes the rest
|
Yet mine entombes his woe.
|
|
|
|
|
The Second Part of the good Shepheard, or Coridons
Comfort. To the same tune.
|
PEace Shepheard cease to mone,
|
in vaine is all this greefe and woe,
|
For him thats from us gone,
|
and can (alack) returne no mo:
|
And yet indeede,
|
The Oaten Reede,
|
and mirth thou late didst know:
|
I blame thee not,
|
If now forgot,
|
for who can blame thy woe?
|
The breath, had once a sound
|
harmonious, is in sighing spent:
|
The temples once were bound,
|
with Chaplets of a pleasing sent,
|
Now Cypresse weare,
|
Thy greefe and care,
|
to all the world to show:
|
The pipe so sweet,
|
Thy lippes nere meet,
|
and who can blame thy woe,
|
The murmure of the Brookes,
|
hath beene delightfull to thine eare,
|
Much pleasure hast thou tooke,
|
sweet Philomelaes note to heare,
|
To see that Quire,
|
From bush to brier,
|
leape lightly too and fro:
|
The Summers Queene,
|
Attird in greene,
|
but now tis nothing so,
|
To see this Queene of flowers,
|
when hoary Hyems part is done,
|
Deck up those Summer Bowers, [?]
|
Defend us from the parching Sun,
|
To see the ground,
|
Embroydered round,
|
and every tree to show:
|
His Virid' die,
|
Hath pleas'd thine eye,
|
but now tis nothing so.
|
Too well I know thy sheepe,
|
at randome graze uppon the plaine:
|
Greefe luls thee now asleepe,
|
and now thou wakst to grieve againe
|
Asleepe, awake
|
For his deere sake,
|
some signe thy sorrowes show:
|
No bed of rest,
|
Can ease thy brest,
|
and who can blame thy woe.
|
No man, (the man that knew
|
for whome our fainting bodies were
|
These robes of sadest hue,
|
and woes more black imbrested bere)
|
Can well forbeare,
|
To shed a teare,
|
griefes tide will overflow:
|
Pale sorrwes course,
|
Hath still some force:
|
then who can blame thy woe.
|
Thy woes I cannot blame,
|
but in thy sorrowes beare a part,
|
Yet now to patience frame,
|
and see the salve cures all our smart:
|
This bud is dead,
|
Is gone, is fled,
|
but in his place doth grow
|
A Flower as faire;
|
As fresh as rare,
|
and he cures all our woe.
|
|
|
|
|