THE
Distasted Lovers Downfall,
Or, the shepherds dying Complaint, concerning the ingratitude
of his Love.
The Shepherd Corydon doth seek Relief
From cruel Daphnis who augments his grief
Tune of, Cloris awake.
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WHen Phoebus had run
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the three thirds of his course,
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His heat now decending,
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did draw back its force:
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Against a green Myrtle
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did Coridon lean,
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Where Flora had o'[r]ecast
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her Mantle of green,
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A sacred Spring there was,
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whose Silver Streams were
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Visited by West winds,
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and a heatful Ayr.
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Here wounded by Cupid,
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lamenting alone,
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T[h]us to Woods and Mountains
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in vain made his moan.
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ALas! cruel Daphnis,
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is this thy return?
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For all those great kindnesses
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I have you borne,
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Ungratefully (Viper-like)
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thust for to kill
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A Love-sick poor Shepherd,
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who ne'r thought no ill.
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Despising our gifts,
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and our kisses dost slight,
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Esteeming me light,
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thou more light as a Wight,
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Not fit to embrace
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those once loved Amrs,
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When Concord united,
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and keep us from harms.
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'Twas first thy great beauty
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that me did ensnare,
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My Eyes were entangled
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in this gold-like Hair:
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Those flattering Eyes,
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Oh those Orbes of the sight,
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To court and to love thee
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did me first invite.
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Thy words which like chains
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did inchant my strong breast,
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My senses those Sairgants
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did quickly Arrest
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They my first Instructours,
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which Venus did move
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In a rustick Shepherd,
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and taught me to love
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More hard than the Oak;
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more stiff than the Rocks;
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More proud and more haughty
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than praised Peacocks:
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More deaf than the Sea;
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more cruel than Fiends;
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More swift in her flight
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than Clouds, or the Winds.
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Sure if thou didst know
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thy flight thou'dst relent,
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Curse all these delays,
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and seek my content.
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Instead of being courted,
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would court without shame,
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Not weighing the spots
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cast on thy good name.
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I have all those things
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which here are desir'd;
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By Shepherds my Oxen
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for fatness admir'd:
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I've Cows, I have Goats,
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which bring much sweet milk,
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And Sheep which gives Fleces
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thrice softer than silk.
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I alwaies made mountains
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and woods to resound
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Thy Praises thy Vertues,
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not easily found:
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All things did pertake
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of my happiness;
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Shrill Nightingale and
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the Sky-Lark did me bless.
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Now fiery Phoebus
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witholds his bright rayes,
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The birds now do cease
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for to chaunt their soft Layes
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Of play the young wanton Kids
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themselves bereave;
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The Clouds pour forth tears,
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beholding my grief.
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Now word me deceive
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my spirits decay,
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I'm hasting to visite
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the Stidian Bay.
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Triumph not, O Cupid,
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in my dismal fate,
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Thou once could have easd me,
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but now tis too late.
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