Those, whom the frowns of jealous friends divide,
May live to meet, and descant on their woe;
And he hath gained a Lady for his bride,
That durst not woo her Maid, a while ago.
But O, what end unto my hopes can come?
That am in love, and cannot tell with whom!
Poor Collin grieves that he was late disdained;
And Cloris doth, for Willy's absence pine;
Sad Thirsis weeps, for his sick Phœbe pained:
But all their sorrows cannot equal mine!
A greater care, alas, on me is come.
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom!
Narcissus like, did I affect my shade;
Some shadow yet I had to dote upon!
Or did I love some Image of the dead,
Whose Substance had not breathed long agone?
I might despair! and so an end would come;
But O, I love! and cannot tell you whom!
Once, in a dream, methought, my Love I viewed,
But never, waking, could her face behold;
And, doubtless, that resemblance was but shewed
That more my tirèd heart, torment it should.
For, since that time, more grieved I am become;
And more in love, I cannot tell with whom!
When on my bed, at night, to rest I lie,
My watchful eyes, with tears bedew my cheek;
And then, "O would it once were day!" I cry,
Yet when it comes, I am as far to seek.
For who can tell, though all the earth he roam;
Or when, or where to find, he knows not whom?
O, if she may be among the beauteous trains
Of all you Nymphs, that haunt the silver rills!
Or if you know her, Ladies of the plains!
Or you, that have your bowers on the hills!
Tell, if you can, who will my Love become?
Or I shall die, and never know for whom!
The Ladies smiled oft, when this they heard,
Because the Passion strange to them appeared,
And stranger was it, since by his expression,
As well as by his own unfeigned confession,
It seemèd true! But having sung it out;
And seeing, scarcely manners, they it thought,
To urge him further: thus to them, he spake.
"Fair Ladies! forasmuch as doubt you make
To re-command me; of mine own accord,
Another Strain I freely will afford.
It shall not be of Love, nor any Song
Which to the praise of Beauty doth belong;
But that, hereafter, when you hence are gone,
Your Shepherd may be sometime thought upon!
To shew you also, what Content the Field
And lonely Grove to honest minds may yield!
That you, my humble fate may not despise,
When you are returned unto your braveries;
And not suppose that, in these homely bowers,
I hug my fortune, 'cause I know not yours.
Such Lines I'll sing, as were composed by me,
When some proud Courtiers, where I happed to be,
Did (like themselves) of their own glories prate,
As in contempt of my more happy state.
And these they be—"