The Tragedy of Phillis, complaining of the disloyall
love of AMINTAS. To a new Court tune.
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AMintas on a Summers day,
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to shun Apollo's beames,
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Was driving of his flocks 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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hard by a Rivers side,
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A voyce which from a Grove was sent
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invited him to bide.
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The voyce well seem'd for to bewray
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some male-contented mind,
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For oftimes did he heare it say,
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ten thousand times unkind:
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The remnant of that raging 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 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-flaking grones,
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He heard her deadly discontents,
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thus all breake forth at once.
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Amintas, is my love to thee,
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of such a light account,
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That thou disdain'st to looke on me,
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or love as thou wert wont?
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Were those the oaths 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 Sun should first obscured be,
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ere thou wouldst change thy thought?
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Then heaven dissolve without delay,
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Sun shew thy face no more,
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Amintas 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 find,
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But too 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 are 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 it's sweet:
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Thine oaths and 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 unexpected storme.
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God knowes it would grieve me much
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for to be kil'd for thee,
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But oh! too neere it doth me touch,
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that thou shouldst murder me:
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God knowes I care not for the paine
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can come for losse 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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Amintas 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 that if I urged thee,
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in loving thee too 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 doubles thy disdaine,
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my griefe thy joy augments:
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Although it yeeld no greater good,
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it oft doth ease my mind,
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For to reproach th'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 layes,
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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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Amintas, and with that poore Maid,
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she sigh'd againe full sore,
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That after that she never said,
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nor sigh'd, nor breath'd no more.
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