The mournfull Shepherdesse of Arcadiah.
OR,
The solitary sollitudes of the matchlesse Shepherdesse:
Whose earthly joy did shine with luster bright,
But now's eclips'd, and turn'd to dismall night;
The Tune is, Tell me you wandring Spirits, etc.
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ASsist me Muses with your power divine,
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to portract out the sable plaints of mine,
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Melpominy direct my warbling quill,
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Descending down from high Pernassus hill
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And sing in queers a heavenly harmony
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Whilst I, whilst I for want of Clora fain would die.
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I was a Shepherdesse of beauty, bright and fair
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Indu'd with graces, honours passing rare,
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And as the Phenix is more excellent,
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Then all the birds under the firmament,
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So was I counted, though I live forlorn
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My joyes, my joyes are all transpos'd which makes me mourn
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I flourish'd like the lovely Mary-gold,
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Or damaske Roses beauteous to behold,
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Whilst lustrous Phoebus with his splendor bright,
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Did spread our blossomes with his glorious light,
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Such operations had the powerfull sun,
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But now, but now it is dissolv'd, my joyes are done.
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The rurall Swaines that were our friendly Mates
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That knew our blisse, our joyes, and happy states,
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Unfainedly in hearts they did rejoyce,
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To hear my Clora's sweet melodious voice,
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His oaten reed did sound with pleasant glee,
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But now, but now my joyes is turn'd to misery,
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With silver tones, his Bag-pipes chanted shril
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(In height of glory on Pernassus hill,)
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Whose harmony delighted all the Swaines,
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That us'd to sport upon the lovely plains,
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With dancing Galliards, Jigges, and Roundelayes,
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And none, and none but Clora, Clora got the praise
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When scorching Tytan with his burning beames,
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In midst of Summer was upon extreames;
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Then to the green woods side he did convey
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His pretty Lambs and Sheep to feed and play,
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This was his care whilst Clora he did keep
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In fields, in fields his tender flock, & harmeles sheep.
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The second part to the same Tune
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WHen blustering Boreas from the North blew cold
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Then did he pen them safely in their Fold
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And when that Winters bitter tempest came
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His zealous care was to prevent the same,
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But Clora's gone, unto another Sphear,
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Instal'd, instal'd a Saint or blessed spirit there.
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And since he's gone, whilst I am left alone,
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The Rurall Swaines, with heavy sighs and moan
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Do seem to call him to his place again,
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But Oh alas, their wishes are in vain;
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The harmelesse sheep, do seem to mourn and pinh,
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Though he, though he, invested is with Saints divine
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Our pretty Lambs are stragling gone astray,
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(who wants a guide must surely loose his way)
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The waters troubled where oun Heards did drink
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And want that vertue to expell the stink,
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His Crook and Scrip he left behind we see
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For heaven, for heaven & glorious joyes more rarer be.
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Th[e] whistling Black-bird, and the Nightingale,
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Whose silver tones were stil'd heroical,
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The Queristers both of the Woods and Fields,
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Whose harmony melodious musick yeelds,
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They'r metamorphoriz'd into sighs and cries,
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Besides, besides the Swan that sings now mourning dies.
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And I in pleasant story too have read,
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That when the Turtle Dove is gone and dead
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The Mate lives single in a mournfull state,
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So wil I doe till death strikes out my date,
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In sollitudes, and pensive heart excel,
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Then shall, then shall the world confesse I lov'd him well.
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Oh that my date were out, my time were neer
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That I might meet him whom I love so deer,
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In high Olimpus heavens celestial throne
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(A place prepar'd for blessed Saints alone.)
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The world is sin, and naughty beside,
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O that, O that my death had been when Clora died.
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