THE Shepherds Complaint:
AND THE
Comforting Shepherdess.
P oor Choron making his complaint,
was comforted at last;
But when he thought himself undone,
his Silvia held him fast.
To the Tune of, Moggy's Jeousie.
|
O H Cupid thou now art too cruel,
|
to use a poor Lover severe,
|
Thou dost to my flame add a fuel,
|
that costs me full many a tear:
|
Then cease to be so out of reason,
|
and let me no longer complain,
|
But grant me some ease for a season,
|
and ease all my sorrow and pain.
|
Whilst others do sweetly lye sleeping,
|
I sigh by my self all alone,
|
My eyes they are swelled with weeping,
|
no sorrows like mine e're was kn[ow]n:
|
But whilst to myself I do pine,
|
I do find all my sorrow in vain,
|
For my love she will ne'r be so kind,
|
as to banish my sorro[w] and pain.
|
Ah Silvia , be cruel [n]o longer,
|
to him that thy beauty adores,
|
Thy Charms they grow stronger & stronger
|
then let thy soft tears w[a]sh my sores:
|
Which I for thy sake have endur'd,
|
though thou dost my service disdain,
|
I'm certain they cannot be Cur'd,
|
but I must e'n dye of my pain.
|
What profit Love is it unto thee,
|
to frown a poor lover to death?
|
And murder the man that doth wooe thee,
|
thus strangely to stifle his breath;
|
My dear I do intreat thee,
|
to grant me my freedom again,
|
For certainly if thou dost cheat me,
|
I languish 'twixt sorrow an pain.
|
But in vain do I beg for a freedom,
|
when Cruelty locks up the door,
|
If young-men they once would but heed 'um
|
they'd never love beauties no more:
|
Then be but as kind as you are fair,
|
and we shall no longer complain,
|
But now we for death must prepare,
|
and dye with extreams of [pain. ]
|
W Hat makes my dear shepherd to languish
|
and sigh on his pittiful moan?
|
I bleed at the thoughts of his anguish,
|
he knows that I love him alone:
|
But yet he doth seem to be jealous,
|
of some that do graze on the Plain,
|
But I think he hath very few fellows,
|
and therefore il'e constant remain.
|
He talks of the pains he endured,
|
and suffered all for my sake,
|
I'm wounded and cannot be cur'd,
|
and my heart it is ready to break:
|
But Coron is still a reviling,
|
the truest that lives on the Plain,
|
No longer then I am a smiling,
|
but he feels a terrible pain.
|
If I should be always a kissing,
|
the world would my folly admire,
|
The Shepherds at us would lye hissing,
|
and hinder what he doth desire:
|
But i'le in a corner imbrace him,
|
that he may no longer complain;
|
At night in my bosome I'le place him,
|
for to banish his sorrow and pain.
|
Was ever poor Shepherdess kinder,
|
then now I do promise to be?
|
How can he then chuse but mind her
|
that loves so unchangeably:
|
He cannot enjoy greater bliss,
|
then with his true love to remain,
|
That each minute will give him a Kiss,
|
for to banish his sorrow and pain.
|
You Lovers take pattern by me then,
|
that hath vow'd to be constant to death,
|
For all Loyal Shepherds to see then,
|
that I at the losing my breath,
|
Was free from all kind of deceit,
|
and a wavering mind did disdain,
|
Now kindness I once more repeat,
|
and I wast with my horrible pain.
|
|
F INIS.
|
|
|
|