The Tragedie of Phillis, complaining of the disloyall
Love of Amyntas.
To a pleasant new Court Tune.
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AMyntas on a Summers day,
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to shunne Apollos beames,
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Was driving of his flockes away,
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to taste some cooling streames,
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And through a Forrest as he went,
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unto a river side,
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A voice which from a grove was sent
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invited him to bide.
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The voyce well seemd for to bewray
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some mal-contented minde:
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For oft times did he heare it say,
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Ten thousand times unkind,
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The remnant of that raged mone,
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did all escape his eare:
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For every word brought forth a grone,
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and every grone a teare.
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And neerer when he did repaire,
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both face and voyce he knew:
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He saw that Phillis was come there,
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her plaints for to renew.
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Thus leaving her unto her plaints,
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and sorrow-slaking grones:
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He heard her deadly discontents,
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thus all breake foorth at once.
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Amyntas, is my love to thee,
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of such a light account,
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That thou disdainest to looke on me,
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or love as thou wast wont:
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Were those the oathes that thou didst make,
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the vowes thou didst conceive,
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When I for thy contentments sake,
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mine hearts delight did leave:
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How oft didst thou protest to me,
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the heavens should turne to nought,
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The Sunne should first obscured be,
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ere thou wouldst change thy though?
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Then Heaven, dissolve without delay,
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Sunne shew thy face no more:
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Amyntas love is lost for aye,
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and woe is me therefore.
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Well might I, if I had beene wise,
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foreseene what now I finde:
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But two much love did fill mine eyes,
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and made my judgement blind:
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But ah, alas: th effect doth prove,
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thy drifts were but deceit,
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For true and undissembled love,
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will never turne to hate.
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All thy behaviours were (God knowes)
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too smooth and too discreet:
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Like Sugar which impoysoned growes,
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suspect because its sweet:
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Thine oathes & vowes did promise more,
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then well thou couldst performe,
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Much like a calme that comes before
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an unsuspected storme.
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God knowes, it would not grieve me much,
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for to be killd for thee:
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But oh: too neere it doth me touch,
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that thou shouldst murther me:
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God knowes, I care not for the paine
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can come for want of breath:
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Tis thy unkindnesse cruell swaine,
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that grieves me to the death.
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Amyntas, tell me, if thou may,
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if any fault of mine,
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Hath given thee cause thus to betray
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mine hearts delight and thine?
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No, no, alas, it could not be,
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my love to thee was such,
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Unlesse if that I urged thee,
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in loving thee to much.
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But ah, alas, what doe I gaine,
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by these my fond complaints?
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My dolour double thy disdaine,
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my griefe thy joy augments:
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Although it yee[l]d no greater good,
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it oft doth ease my mind:
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For to reproach the ingratitude
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of him who is unkind.
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With that, her hand, cold, wan, and pale,
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upon her brest she laies:
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And seeing that her breath did faile,
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she sighes, and then she sayes,
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Amyntas, and with that, poore maid,
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shee sighd againe full sore:
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That after that she never said,
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nor sighd, nor breathd no more.
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