The Complaint of the Shepheard Harpalus.
To a pleasant new Tune.
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POore Harpalus, opprest with love,
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sate by a Cristall Brooke:
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Thinking his sorrowes to remove,
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oft times therein to looke:
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And hearing how on pibble stones,
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the murmuring river ran,
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As if it had bewaild his grones,
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unto it thus began.
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Faire streame (quoth he) that pitties me,
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and heare my matchlesse mone,
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If thou be going to the Sea:
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as I doe now suppone,
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Attend my plaints past all reliefe,
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wich dolefully I breath,
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Acquaint the Sea-Nymphs with the griefe,
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which still procures my death.
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Who sitting in the cliffie Rockes,
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may in their songs expresse,
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While as they combe their golden locks,
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poore Harpalus distresse:
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And so parhaps some passenger,
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that passeth by the way,
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May stay and listen for to heare
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them sing this dolefull Lay.
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Poore Hapalus, a Shepheard Swaine,
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more rich in youth then store:
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Lovd faire Philena, haplesse man,
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Philena, oh therefore.
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Who still, remorslesse hearted maid,
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tooke pleasure in his paine:
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And his good will poore soule, repaid
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with undeservd disdaine.
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Nere Shepheard lovd a Shepheardesse
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more faithfully then he:
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Nere Shepheard yet beloved lesse
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of Shepheardesse could be.
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How oft did he with dying lookes,
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to her his woes impart?
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How oft his sighs did testifie
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the dolour of his heart?
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How oft from Vallies to the Hils,
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did he his griefe rehearse?
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How oft re-ecchoed they his ills,
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abacke againe (alas?)
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How oft on Barkes of stately Pines,
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of Beech of Holly-greene,
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Did he ingrave in mournefull lines,
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the griefe he did sustaine?
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Yet all his plaints could have no place,
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to change Philenas mind:
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The more his sorrowes did increase,
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the more she provd unkind:
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The thought thereof with wearied care,
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poore Harpalus did move,
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That overcome with high d[e]spaire,
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he lost both life and Love.
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