The Dying Shepherdess.
While Coridon did her Forsake ,
who lov'd him as her soul ,
For him poor wretch, she moan did make ,
and sadly did Condole .
To the Tune of, Ah Cloris full of harmless thoughts .
|
A Las my Youthful Coridon ,
|
now prove unkind to me,
|
He was the Man I doted on,
|
yet slighted I must be,
|
O who could think a tongue so fair,
|
could mean so much deceit,
|
And cause a Soul, thus to condole,
|
beneath her pain to great.
|
O that I ne'r had him beleiv'd,
|
who prov'd a meer trappan,
|
Too long, too long, poor soul I griev'd
|
for this False-hearted man:
|
And should I sigh my self to be,
|
to him all one 'twould be,
|
For while I mourn, like one forlorn,
|
he triumphs over me.
|
False Man take heed least you in time,
|
are caught in Cupids Snare,
|
And whilst you flourish in your prime,
|
of such Deceits take care:
|
For sometimes Cupid is so just
|
that he doth those requite,
|
And gives a wound, that is profound,
|
to those who Maids do slight.
|
But let it not to you seem strange,
|
if once you feel his Dart,
|
For though you love the world to range
|
it is but your desert,
|
For to be wounded to the Quick,
|
that you feel such pain,
|
As Maidens do, when such as you,
|
their tender Loves disdain,
|
The pains of Love there's none can tell
|
but those who do them feel,
|
No Doctors art can make them well,
|
no Balsome can them heal,
|
Yet one poor Kiss, can oft do more,
|
then tongue can well express
|
While we do find, false men unkind,
|
and too too pittifless.
|
In dying words I now Exclaim,
|
of thy Unconstancy,
|
By thee thy Faithful Love is slain,
|
for thee I bleeding dye:
|
And when I am deceased and gone,
|
thou surely wilt Lament,
|
& grieve that thou didst break thy vow,
|
and wilt too late Repent.
|
Whilst I in the Elizium shade,
|
with many thousand more,
|
That by false men have been betray'd,
|
in ages heretofore:
|
Amongst our selves shall there rejoyce:
|
while we are left behind,
|
and your heart bleeds, for your misdeeds
|
there we shall comfort find.
|
The torments then you will endure,
|
will be just Punishment,
|
Your wounds will not admit of Cure,
|
in vain you will repent:
|
But had you to your Loves been true,
|
such pains you ne'r had known,
|
O why should we, continually,
|
in torments fry alone.
|
When on your Death-beds you shall lye
|
strange Visions will appear,
|
Which shall amaze your wondring eye,
|
strange sounds shall fill your ear,
|
And when your actions too unjust,
|
you then shall think upon,
|
You'l sigh and say, Death come away,
|
for helpless Coridon ,
|
And when you lose your sweetest breath,
|
as once you know you must,
|
You will avknowledge to grim death,
|
that you have been unjust,
|
And those that here art left behind,
|
shall write upon your Tomb,
|
Here lyeth one false Coridon,
|
confin'd to this small room.
|
|
FINIS .
|
|
|
|