THE
Love-sick Shepherd Cured.
OR, THE
Longing Shepherdess joy compleated.
Being a Pastoral Dialogue between a Shepherd and Shepherdess.
Tune of We all to Conquering Beauty bow : Or, I never saw a Face till now.
|
Shepherdess.
|
TEll me, O Shepherd, why so sad,
|
you sighing sit alone,
|
You that was once the blithest Lad,
|
in mirth excell'd you none,
|
When on your Pipe you us'd to play,
|
which made the Groves to Ring,
|
And oft to Drive sad care away,
|
would dance and sweetly sing.
|
Shepherd.
|
Ah! true alas! fair Shepherdess,
|
I did in that delight,
|
B ut Fortune, envious of my bliss,
|
hath turn'd my Day to Night,
|
Regardless of all sports and play,
|
grief seizes e'ery part,
|
Instead of songs, sad sighs find way
|
from my o're-burden'd heart.
|
Shepherdess.
|
Ah! S hephard I pitty thy smart,
|
and dought it doth proceed
|
F rom the God of love, or Cupid 's dart,
|
which makes poor L overs bleed;
|
Then tell to me, without delay,
|
and do not unkind prove,
|
Thy pale and wan Cheeks seem to say,
|
Shepherd, thou art in love.
|
Shepherd.
|
I need not tell, dear Shepherdess,
|
the Cause of all my pain,
|
My sighs, and tears, they do express,
|
what I would hide in vain;
|
L ove is the cause of all my grief,
|
which now I do endure,
|
And love only can yield relief
|
my L ove-sick heart to cure.
|
Shepherdess.
|
[Cruel ] is she that can deny
|
[so true a ] loving Swain,
|
[Happy is she ], most certainly,
|
[that ] your affections gain;
|
Who is that happy fair one then
|
that doth enjoy thy heart?
|
Cruel, if she'll not love agen,
|
but causes all thy smart.
|
Shepherd.
|
Dear Shepherdess, thy Charming eyes
|
did then my heart betray,
|
And, in L oves fetters, did surprise,
|
and bore my heart away;
|
But, loth for to reveal my Grief,
|
fearing you would deny,
|
Ah! if you do not yield relief,
|
your Shepherd then must dye.
|
Shepherdess.
|
Ah! Shepherd, can it then be true,
|
which now with joy I hear,
|
My heart is only fixt on you,
|
thou art to me as dear.
|
L ong have I lov'd thee, but ah! fate,
|
we Maidens must not wooe,
|
B ut now all grief to expiate,
|
I'll M arry none but you.
|
Shepherd.
|
What unexpected joy is this
|
doth fill my L ove-sick heart!
|
A joy with hope of further bliss,
|
possesses e'ery part,
|
Though love in sorrow oft before
|
did make me to complain,
|
Now love doth all my joys restore,
|
and makes me glad again.
|
|
|
|
|
|