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.
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.
Which I pour forth unto a cruel saint, Who merciless my prayers doth attend, Who tiger-like doth pity my complaint, And never ear unto my woes will lend! But still false hope dispairing life deludes, And tells my fancy I shall grace obtain; But Chloris fair my orisons concludes With fearful frowns, presagers of my pain. Thus do I spend the weary wand'ring day, Oppressèd with a chaos of heart's grief; Thus I consume the obscure night away, Neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief; Thus do I pass my ling'ring life in woe; But when my bliss will come I do not know.
The perils which Leander took in hand Fair Hero's love and favour to obtain, When void of fear securely leaving land, Through Hellespont he swam to Cestos' main, His dangers should not counterpoise my toil, If my dear love would once but pity show, To quench these flames which in my breast do broil, Or dry these springs which from mine eyes do flow. Not only Hellespont but ocean seas, For her sweet sake to ford I would attempt, So that my travels would her ire appease, My soul from thrall and languish to exempt. O what is't not poor I would undertake, If labour could my peace with Chloris make!