An Excellent Sonnet:
OR,
The Swaines complaint, whose cruell doome,
It was to love hee knew not whom.
To the tune of, Bodkins Galiard.
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YOu gentle Nimphs that on the Meddowes play,
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and oft relate the Loves of Shepheards young,
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Come sit you downe, if that you please to stay,
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now may you heare an uncouth passion Song:
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A Lad there is, and I am that poore groome,
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Thats faln in love, and cannot tell with whom.
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Oh doe not smile at sorrow as a jest,
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with others cares good natures moved be:
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And I should weepe if you had my unrest,
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then at my griefe how can you merry be?
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Ah, where is tender pitty now become?
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I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
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I that have oft the rarest features viewd,
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and beauty in her best perfection seene,
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I that have laught at them that love pursud,
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and ever free from such perfections beene,
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Loe now at last so cruell is my doome,
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I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
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My heart is full nigh bursting with desire,
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yet cannot tell from whence these longings flow,
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My brest doth burne, but she that light the fire,
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I never saw, nor can I come to know:
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So great a blisse my fortune keepes me from,
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That though I dearely love, I know not whom.
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Ere I had twice foure Springs renewed seene,
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the force of beauty I began to prove,
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And ere I nine yeeres old had fully beene,
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it taught me how to frame a sound of love,
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And little thought I this day should have come,
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Before that I to love had found out whom.
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For on my chin the mossy downe you see,
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and in my vaines well heated blood doth gloe,
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Of Summers I have seene twice three times three,
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and fast my youthfull time away doth goe:
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That much I feare, I aged shall become,
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And still complaine, I love I know not whom.
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Oh why had I a heart bestowd on me,
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to cherish deare affections so inclind,
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Since I am so unhappy borne to be,
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no object for so true a love to find,
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When I am dead it will be mist of some,
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Yet now I live, I love I know not whom.
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I to a thousand beauteous Nimphs am knowne,
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a hundred Ladies favours doe I sweare,
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I with as many halfe in love am growne,
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yet none of them I find can be my deare,
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Me thinkes I have a Mistresse yet to come,
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Which makes me sing, I love I know not whom.
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The second part, To the same tune.
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THere lives no swaine doth stronger passion prove
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for her, whom most he covets to possesse,
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Then doth my heart that being full of love,
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knowes not to whom it may the same professe,
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For he that is despisd hath sorrow some,
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But he hath more, that loves, & knowes not whom.
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Knew I my Love, as many others doe,
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to some one object might my thoughts be bent,
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So they divided, wandring should not goe,
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untill the soules united force be spent,
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As he that seekes, and never findes a home,
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Such is my rest, that love, and know not whom.
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Those whom the frownes of jealous friends divide,
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may live to meet and descant of their woe,
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And he hath gaind a Lady for his Bride,
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that durst not wooe his Maide a while agoe:
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But oh what ends unto my hopes can come,
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That am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
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Poore Collin grieves that he was late disdaind,
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and Clores doth for Willies absence pine,
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Sad Thirthes weepes for his sicke Phebe paind,
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but all their sorrowes cannot equall mine,
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A greater care on me, alas, is come,
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I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
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Narcissus-like did I affect my shade,
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some shadow yet I had to dote upon,
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Or did I love some Image of the dead,
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whose substance had not breathed long agoe,
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I might despaire, and so an end would come.
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But oh I love, and cannot tell with whom.
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Once in a dreame me thought my love I viewd,
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but never waking could her face behold,
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And doubtlesse that resemblance was but shewd,
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that more my tired heart torment it should.
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For since that time more grievd I am become,
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And more in love, I cannot tell with whom.
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When on my bed at night to rest I lye,
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my watchfull eyes with teares bedew my cheekes,
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And then, oh would it once were day I cry,
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yet when it comes I am as farre to seeke,
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For who can tell, though all the earth he rome,
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Or when or where, to finde he knowes not whom.
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Oh if she be amongst the beauteous traines,
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of all the Nimphs that haunt the severall Kills,
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Or if you know her Ladies of the plaines,
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or you that have your Bowers on the Hills,
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Tell, if you can, who will my love become,
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Or I shall die, and never know for whom.
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