XII
Cease, eyes, to weep sith none bemoans your weeping;
Leave off, good muse, to sound the cruel name
Of my love's queen which hath my heart in keeping,
Yet of my love doth make a jesting game!
Long hath my sufferance laboured to inforce
One pearl of pity from her pretty eyes,
Whilst I with restless oceans of remorse
Bedew the banks where my fair Chloris lies,
Where my fair Chloris bathes her tender skin,
And doth triumph to see such rivers fall
From those moist springs, which never dry have been
Since she their honour hath detained in thrall;
And still she scorns one favouring smile to show
Unto those waves proceeding from my woe.
XIII
A Dream
What time fair Titan in the zenith sat,
And equally the fixèd poles did heat,
When to my flock my daily woes I chat,
And underneath a broad beech took my seat,
The dreaming god which Morpheus poets call,
Augmenting fuel to my Aetna's fire,
With sleep possessing my weak senses all,
In apparitions makes my hopes aspire.
Methought I saw the nymph I would imbrace,
With arms abroad coming to me for help,
A lust-led satyr having her in chase
Which after her about the fields did yelp.
I seeing my love in perplexèd plight,
A sturdy bat from off an oak I reft,
And with the ravisher continue fight
Till breathless I upon the earth him left.
Then when my coy nymph saw her breathless foe,
With kisses kind she gratifies my pain,
Protesting never rigour more to show.
Happy was I this good hap to obtain;
But drowsy slumbers flying to their cell,
My sudden joy converted was to bale;
My wonted sorrows still with me do dwell.
I lookèd round about on hill and dale,
But I could neither my fair Chloris view,
Nor yet the satyr which erstwhile I slew.
XIV
Mournful Amintas, thou didst pine with care,
Because the fates by their untimely doom
Of life bereft thy loving Phillis fair,
When thy love's spring did first begin to bloom.
My care doth countervail that care of thine,
And yet my Chloris draws her angry breath;
My hopes still hoping hopeless now repine,
For living she doth add to me but death.
Thy Phinis, dying, lovèd thee full dear;
My Chloris, living, hates poor Corin's love,
Thus doth my woe as great as thine appear,
Though sundry accents both our sorrows move.
Thy swan-like songs did show thy dying anguish;
These weeping truce-men show I living languish.
XV
These weeping truce-men show I living languish,
My woeful wailings tells my discontent;
Yet Chloris nought esteemeth of mine anguish,
My thrilling throbs her heart cannot relent.
My kids to hear the rimes and roundelays
Which I on wasteful hills was wont to sing,
Did more delight the lark in summer days,
Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring.
But now my flock all drooping bleats and cries,
Because my pipe, the author of their sport,
All rent and torn and unrespected lies;
Their lamentations do my cares consort.
They cease to feed and listen to the plaint
Which I pour forth unto a cruel saint.
XVI