The Mournful Shepherd:
OR,
The Torment of Loving, and not being Lovd again.
A SONG made by a Gentleman who Dyed for his cruel Mistris.
No Torment can be found, no greater pain
Then truly Loving and not Lovd again;
For thats a strange Diseise which Racks the mind,
Still routs the Judgement, and does Reason blind:
Raises a Civil War, distracts the Soul,
Whilst Fancy like a Raging Sea does roul:
The Lovers dreams of nothing but strange Charms,
And often thinks his Mistris in his Arms;
But waking finds he did embrace a Shade;
Which all his hopes with it he had Conveyd.
To a Pleasant New Tune, called, Coud Man his Wish Obtain, etc.
Playd and Sung at the Kings Play-House.
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COuld Man his wish obtain,
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how happy would he be;
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But wishes seldom gain,
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And hopes are but in vain,
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if Fortune disagree:
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Pitty you Powers of Love,
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Our Infilicity
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Why should the Fates Conspire,
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To frustrate my Desire,
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Since Loves the gentle fire
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that keeps the World alive:
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But me it puts to pain,
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My Wishes are in vain,
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Nor promise any hope to gain.
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I love and still I view,
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but dare not tell my mind,
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Should I my flames pursue,
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I might that Bliss undo,
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which is for her designd:
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A Bliss thats far above,
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more lasting, rich, and kind;
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Though hopes succesless prove,
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My heart shall ner remove,
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From wishing of her Love,
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in Fortunes Triumph led;
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And though she banish me,
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If she but happy be,
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twill please my Ghost when I am dead
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Much like a Tyrant sits
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th insulting Prince of Love,
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And with his Arrows hits
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Poor Mortals as it fits,
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his humour from above;
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The Second Part, To the same Tune.
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But pitty I implore.
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O let some pitty move:
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But ah, what is my Error,
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when love thus proves a Terror,
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That is the worlds bright Mirror,
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and guides the Starry frame:
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The flame thats in my breast,
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Alas disturbs my rest,
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Since I of hopes am dispossest.
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Thou Center of my joy,
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the fairest of her kind,
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Does still with frowns destroy,
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My Bliss by proving Coy,
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whilst Love torments my mind;
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And scorches me in pain,
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that I no quiet find:
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Pitty some gentle power,
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And rain a Golden Shower,
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For sure nought else can wooe her
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to cool my raging Flame:
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Alas, that Gold should prove
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The Orb that still does move
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the happy Sphere of sacred love.
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Ore Hills and Rocks I stray,
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through fields and gloomy shade,
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I take my restless way,
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To Venus oft I pray,
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to grant me speedy aid,
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And pitty my distress,
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or how the cruel Maid:
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Whose eyes do Lightning bear,
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Which blast me with despair,
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And takes me in Loves snare,
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nor can I thence escape:
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But struggle there in vain,
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And still does suffer pain,
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Whilst I to free my self do strain.
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Witness ye Founts and Springs,
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Groves, and each pleasant Mead,
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Each warbling Bird that sings,
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And spreads his airy wings;
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and bleeting flocks that feed:
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How cruel the fair Nymph
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to me has ever been:
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But Tyrant love no more,
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To persecute give ore,
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Keep, keep your shafts in store,
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of them there is no need:
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For like the Swan, now I,
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To sing my last leave try,
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Which done, I thus lye down & dye. He Dies
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