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 ran,
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As if it had bewaild his grons,
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unto it thus began:
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Faire streames (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 Rocks,
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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 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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Lov'd faire Philena, haplesse man,
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Philena, oh therefore!
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Who still remorecelesse 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 undeserv'd disdaine.
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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 sighes did testifie
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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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aback 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 mournfull 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 Philena's mind,
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The more his sorrowes did increase,
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the more she prov'd 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 despaire,
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he lost both life and love.
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