III.
You woody Hills! you Dales! you Groves!
You Floods! and every Spring!
You creatures come, whom nothing moves,
And hear a Shepherd sing!
For to Heroès, Nymphs, and Swains,
I, long, have made my moan;
Yet what my mournful Verse contains
Is understood of none.
In song, Apollo gave me skill;
Their love, his Sisters deign:
With those that haunt Parnassus' hill,
I friendship entertain.
Yet this is all in vain to me,
So haplessly I fare!
As those things which my glory be,
My cause of ruin are.
For Love hath kindled in my breast,
His never quenchèd fire:
And I! who often have exprest
What other men desire,
(Because I could so dive into
The depth of others' moan);
Now, I, my own afflictions shew,
I heeded am of none!
Oft have the Nymphs of greatest worth,
Made suit, my Songs to hear;
As oft (when I have sighèd forth,
Such notes as saddest were):
"Alas," said they, "poor gentle heart!
Whoe'er that Shepherd be!"
But none of them suspects my smart,
Nor thinks, it meaneth Me!
When I have reached so high a Strain
Of Passion in my Song,
That they have seen the tears to rain
And trill, my cheek along;
Instead of sigh, or weeping eye
To sympathise with Me!
"O were he once in love!" they cry,
"How moving would he be?"
O pity me, you Powers above!
And take my skill away!
Or let my hearers think I love
And feign not what I say!
For if I could disclose the snare
Which I, unknown, do bear;
Each line would make them sighs impart,
And every word, a tear.
Had I a Mistress, some do think
She should revealèd be;
And I would favours wear, or drink
Her health, upon my knee.
Alas, poor fools! they aim awry!
Their fancy flags too low!
Could they, my love's rare course espy,
They would amazèd grow.
But let nor Nymph, nor Swain conceive
My tongue shall ever tell
Who, of this rest doth me bereave;
Or where I am not well.
But if you, sighing me espy
Where rarest features be;
Mark where I fix a weeping eye,
And swear you! "There is She!"