One Beauty though, there sat among the rest,
That looked as sad as if her heart oppressed
With love had been. Whom Phil'aret beholding
Sit so demurely, and her arms enfolding:
"Lady!" quoth he, "am I, or this poor cheer,
The cause that you so melancholy are?
For if the object of your thoughts be higher,
It fits nor me to know them, nor inquire:
But if from me it cometh, that offends;
I seek the cause, that I may make amends!"
"Kind Swain!" said she, "it is nor so! nor so!
No fault in you! nor in your cheer I know!
Nor do I think there is a thought in me,
That can too worthy of your knowledge be!
Nor have I, many a day, more pleasure had
Than here I find, though I have seemèd sad.
My heart is sometimes heavy when I smile;
And when I grieve, I often sing the while.
Nor is it sadness that doth me possess,
But rather, musing, with much seriousness,
Upon that multitude of sighs and tears,
With those innumerable doubts and fears
Through which you passed, ere you could acquire
A settled Hope of gaining your Desire.
For you dared love a Nymph, so great and fair,
As might have brought a Prince unto despair;
And, sure, the excellency of your Passions
Did then produce as excellent impressions.
If, therefore, me the suit may well become!
And if to you, it be not wearisome!
In name of all the Ladies, I entreat
That one of those sad Strains you would repeat,
Which you composed, when greatest Discontent
Unsought-for help, to your Invention lent!"
"Fair Nymphs!" said Phil'aret, "I will so do!
For though your Shepherd doth no Courtship know,
He hath Humanity! and what's in me,
To do you service, may commanded be!"
So, taking down a lute, that near him hung;
He gave't his boy, who played: whilst this, he sung.
[SONNET I.]
"Ah, me!"
Am I the Swain
That late, from sorrow free,
Did all the cares on earth disdain?
And still untouched, as at some safer games,
Played with the burning coals of Love, and Beauty's flames?
Was't I, could dive, and sound each Passion's secret depth at will;
And from those huge overwhelmings, rise, by help of Reason, still?
And am I, now, O heavens! (for trying this in vain)
So sunk, that I shall never rise again?
Then let Despair set Sorrow's string
For Strains, that doleful'st be!
And I will sing
"Ah, me."
But why,
O fatal Time!
Dost Thou constrain, that I
Should perish in my Youth's sweet prime?
I, but a while ago, You cruel Powers!
In spite of Fortune, cropped Contentment's sweetest flowers.
And yet, unscorned, serve a gentle Nymph, the fairest She,
That ever was beloved of Man, or eyes did ever see.
Yea, one, whose tender heart would rue for my distress;
Yet I, poor I! must perish nay-the-less:
And, which much more augments my care,
Unmoaned, I must die!
And no man e'er
Know why!
Thy leave,
My dying Song!
Yet take! ere Grief bereave
The breath which I enjoy too long.
Tell thou that Fair One this! "My Soul prefers
Her love above my life, and that I died hers!
And let Him be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear,
Who loved the very thought of Her, whilst he remained here!"
And now, farewell, thou place of my unhappy birth!
Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth:
Since me, my wonted joys forsake,
And all my trust deceive;
Of all, I take
My leave!
Farewell,
Sweet Groves, to you!
You Hills, that highest dwell;
And all you humble Vales, adieu!
You wanton Brooks! and solitary Rocks!
My dear Companions all! and you, my tender Flocks!
Farewell, my Pipe! and all those pleasing Songs, whose moving Strains
Delighted once the fairest Nymphs that dance upon the plains!
You Discontentments (whose deep and over-deadly smart
Have, without pity, broke the truest heart)!
Sighs! Tears! and every sad Annoy
That erst did with me dwell!
And all others' Joy!
Farewell!