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 Chrystall Brooke,
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Thinking his sorrowes to remove,
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ofttimes therein did looke:
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And hearing how on pibble stones
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the murmuring River ranne,
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As if it had bewayld his grones,
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unto it thus beganne.
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Faire streame (quoth he) that pitties me,
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and heares 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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which 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 Cliffy Rockes,
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may in their songs expresse,
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While as they combe their golden lockes,
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poore Harpalus distresse:
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And so perhaps 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 Harpalus, a Shepheard Swaine,
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more rich in youth than store;
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Lovd faire Philena haplesse man,
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Philena, oh therefore:
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Who, still remorceless-hearted Mayd,
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tooke pleasure in his pains,
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And his good will, poore soule, repayd
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with undsservd disdayne.
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Nere Shepheard loved 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 testify
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the dolour of his heart?
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How oft from Valleys to the Hills
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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 encrease,
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the more the provd unkind;
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The thought thereof with wearyed care
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poore Harpalus did move,
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That overcome with high despairs,
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he lost both life and Love.
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