The Mournful Shepherd:
OR
The Torment of Loving, and not being Lov'd again .
A SONG made by a Gentleman who Dyed for his cruel Mistriss.
No Torment can be found no greater pain
Then truly Loving and not Lov'd again;
For thats a strange Disease which Racks the mind,
Still routs the Judgment, and does Reason blind:
Raises a Civil War, distracts the Soul,
Whilst Fancy like a Raging Sea does roul:
The Lovers dreams of nothing but strange Charms.
And often thinks his Mistris in his Arms;
But waking finds he did embrace a Shade
Which all his hopes with it he had Convey'd.
To a Pleasant New Tune, called Could Man his Wish Obtain , etc.
Play'd and Sung at the King's Play-House .
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C Ould man his wish obtain,
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how hapyy would he be;
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But wishes seldome gain,
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And hopes are but in vain,
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if Fortunes disagree:
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Pitty you Powers of Love,
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our Infelicity;
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Why should the Fates Conspire
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To frustrate my desire,
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Since Love's the gentle fine
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that keeps the World alive:
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But me it puts to pain,
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My Wishes are in vain,
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Nor promise any hope to gain.
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I love and still I view,
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but dare not tell my mind,
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Should I my flames pursue,
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I might that Bliss undo,
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which is for her design'd,
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A Bliss that's far above,
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more lasting, rich and kind:
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Though hopes succesless prove,
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My heart shall ne'r remove,
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From wishing of her Love,
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in Fortunes Triumph led;
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And thou she banish me,
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If she but happy be,
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'twill please my Ghost when I am dead,
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Much lke a Tyrant sits
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th' insulting Prince of Love,
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And with his Arrows hits
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Poor Mortals as it fits,
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his humour from above;
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But pitty I implore,
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O let some pitty move:
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But ah what is my Error,
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when love thus proves a Terror,
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That is the worlds-bright Mirror,
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and guides the Starry frame;
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The flame that's in my breast,
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Alas disturbs my rest,
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Since I of hopes am dispossest.
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Thou Center of my joy,
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the fairest of her kind,
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Does still with frowns destroy,
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My Bliss by proving Coy,
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whilst Love torments my mind:
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And scorches me in pain,
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that I no quiet find:
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Pitty some gnetle power
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And rain a golden Shower,
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For sure nought else can wooe her
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to cool my raging Flame:
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Alas, that Gold should prove
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The Orb that still does move
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the happy Sphere of sacred love.
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O're Hills and Rocks I stray
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through fields and gloomy shade
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I take my restless way,
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To Venus oft I pray,
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to grant me speedy aid,
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And pitty my distress,
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oh how the cruel Maid:
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Whose eyes do lightning bear,
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Which blast me with despair,
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And takes me in Loves snare,
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nor can I thence escape:
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But struggle there in vain,
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And still does suffer pain,
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Witness ye Founts and Springs,
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Groves, & each pleasant Mead,
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Each warbling Bird that sings,
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And spreads his airy wings;
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and bleeting flocks that feeds:
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How cruel the fair Nymph
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to me has ever been.
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But Tyrant love no more,
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To persecute give o're,
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Keep keep, you shafts in store,
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of them there is no need:
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For lick the Swan, now I
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To sing my last leave try,
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Which done, I thus lye down & dye. He dies.
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FINIS.
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