CHLORIS,

CHLORIS,orThe Complaint of thepassionate despisedShepherd.ByWilliam Smith.Imprinted at London,byEdmund Bollifant.1596.To the most excellent and learnedShepherdColin Clout[i.e.Edmund Spenser].COlin, my dear and most entire beloved,My Muse audacious stoops her pitch to thee!Desiring that thy patience be not movedBy these rude lines, written here you see.Fain would my Muse, whom cruel Love hath wronged,Shroud her love-labours under thy protection!And I myself, with ardent zeal, have longedThat thou mightst know, to thee my true affection.Therefore, goodColin, graciously acceptA few sad Sonnets which my Muse hath framed:Though they but newly from the shell are crept,Suffer them not by envy to be blamed!But, underneath the shadow of thy wings,Give warmth to these young-hatchèd orphan things!Give warmth to these young-hatchèd orphan things!Which, chill with cold, to thee for succour creep.They of my study are the budding springs:Longer I cannot them in silence keep.They will be gadding! sore against my mind.But, courteous Shepherd, if they run astray,Conduct them, that they may the pathway find:And teach them how the Mean observe they may!Thou shalt them ken by their discording notes!Their weeds are plain, such as poor shepherds wear;Unshapen, torn, and ragged are their coats:Yet forth they wandering are, devoid of fear.They which have tasted of the Muses' spring,I hope, will smile upon the tunes they sing.W. Smith.FINIS.To all Shepherds in general.YOuwhom the World admires for rarest style,You which have sung the Sonnets of True Love,Upon my maiden verse with favour smile!Whose weak-penned Muse, to fly too soon doth prove:Before her feathers have their full perfection,She soars aloft, pricked on by blind affection.You whose deep wits, ingine, and industry,The everlasting palm of praise have won!You paragons of learned PoesyFavour these mists! which fall before you sun:Intentions leading to a more effect,If you them grace but with your mild aspect.And Thou, the Genius of my ill tuned note!Whose beauty urgèd hath my rustic vein,Through mighty oceans of despair to float;That I in rhyme thy cruelty complain:Vouchsafe to read these lines both harsh and bad!Nuntiates of Woe, with sorrow being clad.W. Smith.CHLORIS.SONNET I.COurteous Calliope,vouchsafe to lendThy helping hand to my untunèd Song!And grace these Lines, which I to write pretend,Compelled by love which doth poorCorinwrong.And those, thy sacred Sisters, I beseech,Which on Parnassus' Mount do ever dwell,To shield my country Muse and rural speechBy their divine authority and spell.Lastly to thee, OPan, the shepherds' King;And you swift footed Dryades, I call!Attend to hear a swain in verse to singSonnets of her that keeps his heart in thrall!OChloris, weigh the task I undertake!Thy beauty, subject of my Song I make.SONNET II.THybeauty, subject of my Song I make;O fairest Fair! on whom depends my life:Refuse not then the task I undertakeTo please thy rage, and to appease my strife!But with one smile remunerate my toil;None other guerdon I, of thee desire.Give not my lowly Muse new-hatched the foil,But warmth; that she may at the length aspireUnto the temples of thy star-bright Eyes;Upon whose round orbs perfect Beauty sits:From whence such glorious crystal Beams ariseAs best myChloris'seemly Face befits.Which Eyes, which Beauty, which bright crystal Beam,Which Face of thine, hath made my love extreme.SONNET III.FEed, silly sheep! although your keeper pineth;Yet, like toTantalus, doth see his food.Skip you and leap! now brightApolloshinethWhilst I bewail my sorrows in yon wood:Where woefulPhilomeladoth record(And sings with notes of sad and dire lament),The tragedy wrought by her sister's Lord.I'll bear a part in her black discontent!That pipe, which erst was wont to make you glee,Upon these downs whereon you careless graze,Shall to her mournful music tunèd be!Let not my plaints, poor lambkins, you amaze!There, underneath that dark and dusky bower,Whole showers of Tears toChlorisI will pour!SONNET IV.WHoleshowers of Tears toChlorisI will pourAs true oblations of my sincere love.If that will not suffice, most fairest Flower!Then shall my Sighs, thee to pity move.If neither Tears nor Sighs can ought prevail;My streaming Blood thine anger shall appease!This hand of mine by vigour shall assailTo tear my heart asunder, thee to please!Celestial powers, on you I invocate!You know the chaste affections of my mind!I never did my faith yet violate!Why should myChloristhen be so unkind?That neither Tears, nor Sighs, nor streaming BloodCan unto mercy move her cruel mood.SONNET V.YOuFauns and Silvans, when myChlorisbringsHer flocks to water in your pleasant plains,Solicit her to pityCorin's stings!The smart whereof, for her, he still sustains.For she is ruthless of my woeful song.My oaten reed she not delights to hear.OChloris!Chloris!Corinthou dost wrong;Who loves thee better than his own heart dear.The flames of Etna are not half so hotAs is the fire which thy disdain hath bred.Ah, cruel Fates! why do you then besotPoorCorin's soul with love? when love is fled!Either cause cruelChloristo relent,Or let me die upon the wound she sent!SONNET VI.YOulofty Pines, co-partners of my woe,When CHLORIS sitteth underneath your shade;To her those sighs and tears, I pray you show,Whilst you attending, I for her have made.Whilst you attending droppèd have sweet balm,In token that you pity my distress:Zephirushath your stately boughs made calm;Whilst I, to you my sorrows did express.The neighbour mountains bendèd have their tops,When they have heard my rueful melody;And Elves, in rings about me leap and hop,To frame my passions to their jollity.Resounding echoes, from their obscure cavesReiterate what most my fancy craves.SONNET VII.WHatneed I mourn? seeingPan, our sacred King,Was, of that Nymph, fairSyrinxcoy, disdained.The World's great Light, which comforteth each thing,All comfortless forDaphne's sake remained.If gods can find no help to heal the soreMade byLove's shafts, which pointed are with fire;UnhappyCorin, then thy chance deplore!Since they despair by wanting their desire.I am notPan, though I a shepherd be;Yet is my Love as fair asSyrinxwas.My Song cannot withPhœbus's tunes agree;YetChlorisdoth hisDaphnefar surpass.How much more fair, by so much more unkindThanSyrinxcoy, orDaphne, I her find.SONNET VIII.NO sooner had fairPhœbustrimmed his car,Being newly arisen fromAurora's bed;But I, in whom Despair and Hope did war,My unpenned flock unto the mountains led.Tripping upon the snow-soft downs I spiedThree Nymphs, more fairer than those Beauties ThreeWhich did appear toParison Mount Ide.Coming more near, my goddess I there see.For She, the field Nymphs oftentimes doth haunt,To hunt with them the fierce and savage boar:And having sported, Virelays they chant;Whilst I, unhappy, helpless cares deplore.There did I call to her, ah, too unkind!But tiger-like, of me she had no mind.SONNET IX.UNtothe fountain, where fairDianachasteThe proudActeonturnèd to a hart,I drave my flock that water sweet to taste;'Cause from the welkin,Phœbus'gan depart.There did I see the Nymph whom I admire.Remembering her locks; of which the yellow hueMade blush the beauties of her curlèd wire.WhichJovehimself with wonder well might view.Then red with ire, her tresses she berent;And weeping hid the beauty of her face:Whilst I, amazèd at her discontent,With tears and sighs do humbly sue for grace.But she, regarding neither tears nor moan,Flies from the fountain, leaving me alone.SONNET X.AM I aGorgon? that she doth me fly!Or was I hatchèd in the river Nile?Or doth myChlorisstand in doubt that I,With Siren songs, do seek her to beguile?If any one of these she can object'Gainst me, which chaste affectèd love protest;Then might my fortunes by her frowns be checked:And blameless She from scandal free might rest.But seeing I am no hideous monster born;But have that shape which other men do bear:Which form greatJupiterdid never scornAmongst his subjects here on earth to wear.Why should she then that soul with sorrow fillWhich vowèd hath to love and serve her still?SONNET XI.TEllme, my dear, what moves thy ruthless mindTo be so cruel, seeing thou art so fair?Did Nature frame thy beauty so unkind;Or dost thou scorn to pity my despair?O no, it was not Nature's ornament,But wingèdLove's impartial cruel wound,Which in my heart is ever permanent,Until myChlorismakes me whole and sound.O glorious Love-God, think on my heart's grief!Let not thy vassal pine through deep disdain!By woundingChloris, I shall find relief;If thou impart to her some of my pain.She doth thy temples and thy shrines abject!They withAminta's flowers by me are decked.SONNET XII.CEaseeyes to weep, sith none bemoans your weeping!Leave off, good Muse, to sound the cruel nameOf 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 enforceOne pearl of pity from her pretty eyes;Whilst I, with restless oceans of remorse,Bedew the banks where my fairChlorislies,Where my fairChlorisbathes her tender skin;And doth triumph to see such rivers fallFrom those moist springs, which never dry have beenSince she their honour hath detained in thrall.And still she scorns one favouring smile to showUnto those waves proceeding from my woe.A Dream.SONNET XIII.WHattime fairTitanin the zenith satAnd 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, whichMorpheusPoets call,Augmenting fuel to my Etna's fire,With sleep possessing my weak senses all,In apparitions makes my hopes aspire.Methought I saw the Nymph I would embrace,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 perplexed plight,A sturdy bat from off an oak I reft;And with the ravisher continued fightTill 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 convertèd was to bale.My wontèd sorrows still with me do dwell.I lookèd round about on hill and dale:But I could neither my fairChlorisview;Not yet the Satyr, which erst while I slew.SONNET XIV.MOurnfulAmyntas, thou didst pine with care,Because the Fates, by their untimely doom,Of life bereft thy lovingPhillisfair;When thy love's Spring did first begin to bloom.My care doth countervail that care of thine;And yet myChlorisdraws her angry breath:My hopes, still hoping, hopeless now repine;For living, She doth add to me but death.ThyPhillisdying, lovèd thee full dear.MyChlorisliving, hates poorCorin's love.Thus doth my woe as great as thine appear;Though sundry accents both our sorrows move.Thy swan-like Song did shew thy dying anguish:These weeping Truce-men shew I living languish.SONNET XV.THeseweeping Truce-men shew I living languish;My woeful wailings tell my discontent:YetChlorisnought esteemeth of mine anguish;My thrilling throbs, her heart cannot relent.My kids to hear the rhymes and roundelays,Which I, on wasteful hills, was wont to sing,Did more delight than lark in summer days:Whole 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.SONNET XVI.WHichI pour forth unto a cruel Saint,Who merciless my prayers doth attend:Who tiger-like doth pity my complaint;And never unto my woes will lend.But still false hope despairing life deludes;And tells my fancy I shall grace obtain.ButChlorisfair, my orisons concludesWith fearful frowns, presagers of my pain.Thus do I spend the weary wandering day,Oppressèd with a chaos of heart's grief:Thus I consume the obscure night away,Neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief.Thus I pass my lingering life in woe:But when my bliss will come, I do not know!SONNET XVII.THeperils whichLeandertook in hand,FairHero'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 travails 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 withChlorismake?SONNET XVIII.MY Love, I cannot thy rare beauties placeUnder those forms which many Writers use.Some like to stones, compare their Mistress' face.Some in the name of flowers do love abuse.Some make their love a goldsmith's shop to be,Where orient pearls and precious stones abound.In my conceit these far do disagreeThe perfect praise of beauty forth to sound.OChloris, thou dost imitate thyself!Self's imitating passeth precious stonesOr all the Eastern Indian golden pelf,Thy red and white, with purest fair atones,Matchless for beauty Nature hath thee framed:Only "unkind" and "cruel" thou art named.SONNET XIX.THeHound, by eating grass, doth find relief:For, being sick, it is his choicest meat.The wounded Hart doth ease his pain and grief;If he, the herbDictamionmay eat.The loathsome Snake renews his sight again,When he casts off his withered coat and hue.The sky-bred Eagle fresh age doth obtainWhen he, his beak decayèd doth renew.I worse than these, whose sore no salve can cure;Whose grief, no herb, nor plant, nor tree can ease:Remediless, I still must pain endureTill I, myChloris's furious mood can please.She, like the scorpion, gave to me a wound;And, like the scorpion, she must make me sound.SONNET XX.YE wasteful woods, bear witness of my woe!Wherein my plaints did oftentimes abound.Ye, careless birds, my sorrows well do know!They, in your songs, were wont to make a sound.Thou, pleasant spring, canst record likewise bear.Of my designs and sad disparagement!When thy transparent billows mingled wereWith those downfalls which from mine eyes were sent.The echo of my still-lamenting cries,From hollow vaults, in treble voice resoundeth;And then into the empty air it flies,And back again from whence it came reboundeth.That Nymph, unto my clamours doth reply,"Being likewise scorned in love, as well as I."SONNET XXI."BEinglikewise scorned in love as well as I"By that self-loving Boy; which did disdainTo hear her, after him for love to cry:For which in dens obscure she doth remain.Yet doth she answer to each speech and wordAnd renders back the last of what we speak.But 'specially, if she might have her choice,She of "Unkindness" would her talk forth break.She loves to hear of Love's most sacred name;Although, poor Nymph, in love she was despised:And ever since she hides her head for shame,That her true meaning was so lightly prized.She, pitying me, part of my woes doth hear;As you, good Shepherds, list'ning now shall hear.SONNET XXII.O fairestFair, to thee I make my plaint,my plaint,To thee from whom my cause of grief doth spring:doth spring:Attentive be unto the groans, sweet Saint!sweet Saint!Which unto thee in doleful tunes I sing.I sing.My mournful Muse doth always speak of thee.of thee.My love is pure, O do not it disdain!disdain!With bitter sorrow still oppress not me;not me;But mildly look upon me which complain.which complain.Kill not my true-affecting thoughts; but givebut giveSuch precious balm of comfort to my heart,my heart,That casting off despair, in hope to live,hope to live,I may find help at length to ease my smart.to ease my smart.So shall you add such courage to my love,my love,That fortune false, my faith shall not remove.shall not remove.SONNET XXIII.THePhœnix fair which rich Arabia breeds,When wasting time expires her tragedy;No more onPhœbus'radiant rayes she feeds:But heapeth up great store of spicery;And on a lofty tow'ring cedar tree,With heavenly substance, she herself consumes.From whence she young again appears to be,Out of the cinders of her peerless plumes.So I, which long have frièd in love's flame,The fire, not made of spice, but sighs and tears,Revive again, in hope Disdain to shame,And put to flight the author of my fears.Her eyes revive decaying life in me;Though they augmentors of my thraldom be.SONNET XXIV.THoughthey augmentors of my thraldom be:For her I live, and her I love and none else.O then, fair eyes, look mildly upon me!Who poor, despised, forlorn, must live alone else:And, likeAmyntas, haunt the desert cells(And moneyless there breathe out thy cruelty)Where none but Care and Melancholy dwell.I, for revenge, toNemesiswill cry!If that will not prevail; my wandering ghost,Which breathless here this love-scorched trunk shall leave,Shall unto thee, with tragic tidings post!How thy disdain did life from soul bereave.Then, all too late, my death thou wilt repent!When murder's guilt, thy conscience shall torment.SONNET XXV.WHodoth not know thatLoveis triumphant,Sitting upon the throne of majesty?The gods themselves, his cruel darts do daunt:And he, blind boy, smiles at their misery!Lovemade greatJoveofttimes transform his shape.Lovemade the fierceAlcidesstoop at last.Achilles, stout and bold, could not escapeThe direful doom whichLoveupon him cast.LovemadeLeanderpass the dreadful flood,Which Cestos from Abydos doth divide.Lovemade a chaos where proud Ilion stood.ThroughLovethe CarthaginianDidodied.Thus may we see howLovedoth rule and reign;Bringing those under, which his power disdain.SONNET XXVI.THoughyou be fair and beautiful withal;And I am black, for which you me despise:Know that your beauty subject is to fall!Though you esteem it at so high a price.And time may come when that whereof you boast,Which is your youth's chief wealth and ornament,Shall withered be by winter's raging frost;When beauty's pride and flowering years are spent.Then wilt thou mourn! when none shall thee respect.Then wilt thou think how thou hast scorned my tears!Then, pitiless, each one will thee neglect;When hoary grey shall dye thy yellow hairs.Then wilt thou think upon poorCorin's case!Who loved thee dear, yet lived in thy disgrace.SONNET XXVII.O LOVE, leave off with sorrows to torment me!Let my heart's grief and pining pain content thee!The breach is made; I give thee leave to enter!Thee to resist, great god, I dare not venture!Restless desire doth aggravate my anguish;Careful conceits do fill my soul with languish:Be not too cruel, in thy conquest gained!Thy deadly shafts have victory obtained!Batter no more my Fort with fierce affection;But shield me, captive, under thy protection![Two lines wanting.]I yield to thee, O Love, thou art the stronger!Raise then thy siege, and trouble me no longer!SONNET XXVIII.WHatcruel star, or fate, had dominionWhen I was born? that thus my love is crossed.Or from what planet had I derivation?That thus my life in seas of woe is crossed.Doth any live that ever hath such hap,That all their actions are of none effect?Whom Fortune never dandled in her lap;But, as an abject, still doth me reject.Ah, fickle Dame! and yet thou constant artMy daily grief and anguish to increase!And to augment the troubles of my heart;Thou, of these bonds will never me release!So that thy darlings, me to be may know,The true Idea of all Worldly Woe.SONNET XXIX.

The Complaint of thepassionate despisedShepherd.

ByWilliam Smith.

Imprinted at London,byEdmund Bollifant.1596.

COlin, my dear and most entire beloved,My Muse audacious stoops her pitch to thee!Desiring that thy patience be not movedBy these rude lines, written here you see.Fain would my Muse, whom cruel Love hath wronged,Shroud her love-labours under thy protection!And I myself, with ardent zeal, have longedThat thou mightst know, to thee my true affection.Therefore, goodColin, graciously acceptA few sad Sonnets which my Muse hath framed:Though they but newly from the shell are crept,Suffer them not by envy to be blamed!But, underneath the shadow of thy wings,Give warmth to these young-hatchèd orphan things!Give warmth to these young-hatchèd orphan things!Which, chill with cold, to thee for succour creep.They of my study are the budding springs:Longer I cannot them in silence keep.They will be gadding! sore against my mind.But, courteous Shepherd, if they run astray,Conduct them, that they may the pathway find:And teach them how the Mean observe they may!Thou shalt them ken by their discording notes!Their weeds are plain, such as poor shepherds wear;Unshapen, torn, and ragged are their coats:Yet forth they wandering are, devoid of fear.They which have tasted of the Muses' spring,I hope, will smile upon the tunes they sing.W. Smith.

FINIS.

YOuwhom the World admires for rarest style,You which have sung the Sonnets of True Love,Upon my maiden verse with favour smile!Whose weak-penned Muse, to fly too soon doth prove:Before her feathers have their full perfection,She soars aloft, pricked on by blind affection.You whose deep wits, ingine, and industry,The everlasting palm of praise have won!You paragons of learned PoesyFavour these mists! which fall before you sun:Intentions leading to a more effect,If you them grace but with your mild aspect.And Thou, the Genius of my ill tuned note!Whose beauty urgèd hath my rustic vein,Through mighty oceans of despair to float;That I in rhyme thy cruelty complain:Vouchsafe to read these lines both harsh and bad!Nuntiates of Woe, with sorrow being clad.W. Smith.

COurteous Calliope,vouchsafe to lendThy helping hand to my untunèd Song!And grace these Lines, which I to write pretend,Compelled by love which doth poorCorinwrong.And those, thy sacred Sisters, I beseech,Which on Parnassus' Mount do ever dwell,To shield my country Muse and rural speechBy their divine authority and spell.Lastly to thee, OPan, the shepherds' King;And you swift footed Dryades, I call!Attend to hear a swain in verse to singSonnets of her that keeps his heart in thrall!OChloris, weigh the task I undertake!Thy beauty, subject of my Song I make.

THybeauty, subject of my Song I make;O fairest Fair! on whom depends my life:Refuse not then the task I undertakeTo please thy rage, and to appease my strife!But with one smile remunerate my toil;None other guerdon I, of thee desire.Give not my lowly Muse new-hatched the foil,But warmth; that she may at the length aspireUnto the temples of thy star-bright Eyes;Upon whose round orbs perfect Beauty sits:From whence such glorious crystal Beams ariseAs best myChloris'seemly Face befits.Which Eyes, which Beauty, which bright crystal Beam,Which Face of thine, hath made my love extreme.

FEed, silly sheep! although your keeper pineth;Yet, like toTantalus, doth see his food.Skip you and leap! now brightApolloshinethWhilst I bewail my sorrows in yon wood:Where woefulPhilomeladoth record(And sings with notes of sad and dire lament),The tragedy wrought by her sister's Lord.I'll bear a part in her black discontent!That pipe, which erst was wont to make you glee,Upon these downs whereon you careless graze,Shall to her mournful music tunèd be!Let not my plaints, poor lambkins, you amaze!There, underneath that dark and dusky bower,Whole showers of Tears toChlorisI will pour!

WHoleshowers of Tears toChlorisI will pourAs true oblations of my sincere love.If that will not suffice, most fairest Flower!Then shall my Sighs, thee to pity move.If neither Tears nor Sighs can ought prevail;My streaming Blood thine anger shall appease!This hand of mine by vigour shall assailTo tear my heart asunder, thee to please!Celestial powers, on you I invocate!You know the chaste affections of my mind!I never did my faith yet violate!Why should myChloristhen be so unkind?That neither Tears, nor Sighs, nor streaming BloodCan unto mercy move her cruel mood.

YOuFauns and Silvans, when myChlorisbringsHer flocks to water in your pleasant plains,Solicit her to pityCorin's stings!The smart whereof, for her, he still sustains.For she is ruthless of my woeful song.My oaten reed she not delights to hear.OChloris!Chloris!Corinthou dost wrong;Who loves thee better than his own heart dear.The flames of Etna are not half so hotAs is the fire which thy disdain hath bred.Ah, cruel Fates! why do you then besotPoorCorin's soul with love? when love is fled!Either cause cruelChloristo relent,Or let me die upon the wound she sent!

YOulofty Pines, co-partners of my woe,When CHLORIS sitteth underneath your shade;To her those sighs and tears, I pray you show,Whilst you attending, I for her have made.Whilst you attending droppèd have sweet balm,In token that you pity my distress:Zephirushath your stately boughs made calm;Whilst I, to you my sorrows did express.The neighbour mountains bendèd have their tops,When they have heard my rueful melody;And Elves, in rings about me leap and hop,To frame my passions to their jollity.Resounding echoes, from their obscure cavesReiterate what most my fancy craves.

WHatneed I mourn? seeingPan, our sacred King,Was, of that Nymph, fairSyrinxcoy, disdained.The World's great Light, which comforteth each thing,All comfortless forDaphne's sake remained.If gods can find no help to heal the soreMade byLove's shafts, which pointed are with fire;UnhappyCorin, then thy chance deplore!Since they despair by wanting their desire.I am notPan, though I a shepherd be;Yet is my Love as fair asSyrinxwas.My Song cannot withPhœbus's tunes agree;YetChlorisdoth hisDaphnefar surpass.How much more fair, by so much more unkindThanSyrinxcoy, orDaphne, I her find.

NO sooner had fairPhœbustrimmed his car,Being newly arisen fromAurora's bed;But I, in whom Despair and Hope did war,My unpenned flock unto the mountains led.Tripping upon the snow-soft downs I spiedThree Nymphs, more fairer than those Beauties ThreeWhich did appear toParison Mount Ide.Coming more near, my goddess I there see.For She, the field Nymphs oftentimes doth haunt,To hunt with them the fierce and savage boar:And having sported, Virelays they chant;Whilst I, unhappy, helpless cares deplore.There did I call to her, ah, too unkind!But tiger-like, of me she had no mind.

UNtothe fountain, where fairDianachasteThe proudActeonturnèd to a hart,I drave my flock that water sweet to taste;'Cause from the welkin,Phœbus'gan depart.There did I see the Nymph whom I admire.Remembering her locks; of which the yellow hueMade blush the beauties of her curlèd wire.WhichJovehimself with wonder well might view.Then red with ire, her tresses she berent;And weeping hid the beauty of her face:Whilst I, amazèd at her discontent,With tears and sighs do humbly sue for grace.But she, regarding neither tears nor moan,Flies from the fountain, leaving me alone.

AM I aGorgon? that she doth me fly!Or was I hatchèd in the river Nile?Or doth myChlorisstand in doubt that I,With Siren songs, do seek her to beguile?If any one of these she can object'Gainst me, which chaste affectèd love protest;Then might my fortunes by her frowns be checked:And blameless She from scandal free might rest.But seeing I am no hideous monster born;But have that shape which other men do bear:Which form greatJupiterdid never scornAmongst his subjects here on earth to wear.Why should she then that soul with sorrow fillWhich vowèd hath to love and serve her still?

TEllme, my dear, what moves thy ruthless mindTo be so cruel, seeing thou art so fair?Did Nature frame thy beauty so unkind;Or dost thou scorn to pity my despair?O no, it was not Nature's ornament,But wingèdLove's impartial cruel wound,Which in my heart is ever permanent,Until myChlorismakes me whole and sound.O glorious Love-God, think on my heart's grief!Let not thy vassal pine through deep disdain!By woundingChloris, I shall find relief;If thou impart to her some of my pain.She doth thy temples and thy shrines abject!They withAminta's flowers by me are decked.

CEaseeyes to weep, sith none bemoans your weeping!Leave off, good Muse, to sound the cruel nameOf 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 enforceOne pearl of pity from her pretty eyes;Whilst I, with restless oceans of remorse,Bedew the banks where my fairChlorislies,Where my fairChlorisbathes her tender skin;And doth triumph to see such rivers fallFrom those moist springs, which never dry have beenSince she their honour hath detained in thrall.And still she scorns one favouring smile to showUnto those waves proceeding from my woe.

A Dream.

WHattime fairTitanin the zenith satAnd 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, whichMorpheusPoets call,Augmenting fuel to my Etna's fire,With sleep possessing my weak senses all,In apparitions makes my hopes aspire.Methought I saw the Nymph I would embrace,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 perplexed plight,A sturdy bat from off an oak I reft;And with the ravisher continued fightTill 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 convertèd was to bale.My wontèd sorrows still with me do dwell.I lookèd round about on hill and dale:But I could neither my fairChlorisview;Not yet the Satyr, which erst while I slew.

MOurnfulAmyntas, thou didst pine with care,Because the Fates, by their untimely doom,Of life bereft thy lovingPhillisfair;When thy love's Spring did first begin to bloom.My care doth countervail that care of thine;And yet myChlorisdraws her angry breath:My hopes, still hoping, hopeless now repine;For living, She doth add to me but death.ThyPhillisdying, lovèd thee full dear.MyChlorisliving, hates poorCorin's love.Thus doth my woe as great as thine appear;Though sundry accents both our sorrows move.Thy swan-like Song did shew thy dying anguish:These weeping Truce-men shew I living languish.

THeseweeping Truce-men shew I living languish;My woeful wailings tell my discontent:YetChlorisnought esteemeth of mine anguish;My thrilling throbs, her heart cannot relent.My kids to hear the rhymes and roundelays,Which I, on wasteful hills, was wont to sing,Did more delight than lark in summer days:Whole 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.

WHichI pour forth unto a cruel Saint,Who merciless my prayers doth attend:Who tiger-like doth pity my complaint;And never unto my woes will lend.But still false hope despairing life deludes;And tells my fancy I shall grace obtain.ButChlorisfair, my orisons concludesWith fearful frowns, presagers of my pain.Thus do I spend the weary wandering day,Oppressèd with a chaos of heart's grief:Thus I consume the obscure night away,Neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief.Thus I pass my lingering life in woe:But when my bliss will come, I do not know!

THeperils whichLeandertook in hand,FairHero'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 travails 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 withChlorismake?

MY Love, I cannot thy rare beauties placeUnder those forms which many Writers use.Some like to stones, compare their Mistress' face.Some in the name of flowers do love abuse.Some make their love a goldsmith's shop to be,Where orient pearls and precious stones abound.In my conceit these far do disagreeThe perfect praise of beauty forth to sound.OChloris, thou dost imitate thyself!Self's imitating passeth precious stonesOr all the Eastern Indian golden pelf,Thy red and white, with purest fair atones,Matchless for beauty Nature hath thee framed:Only "unkind" and "cruel" thou art named.

THeHound, by eating grass, doth find relief:For, being sick, it is his choicest meat.The wounded Hart doth ease his pain and grief;If he, the herbDictamionmay eat.The loathsome Snake renews his sight again,When he casts off his withered coat and hue.The sky-bred Eagle fresh age doth obtainWhen he, his beak decayèd doth renew.I worse than these, whose sore no salve can cure;Whose grief, no herb, nor plant, nor tree can ease:Remediless, I still must pain endureTill I, myChloris's furious mood can please.She, like the scorpion, gave to me a wound;And, like the scorpion, she must make me sound.

YE wasteful woods, bear witness of my woe!Wherein my plaints did oftentimes abound.Ye, careless birds, my sorrows well do know!They, in your songs, were wont to make a sound.Thou, pleasant spring, canst record likewise bear.Of my designs and sad disparagement!When thy transparent billows mingled wereWith those downfalls which from mine eyes were sent.The echo of my still-lamenting cries,From hollow vaults, in treble voice resoundeth;And then into the empty air it flies,And back again from whence it came reboundeth.That Nymph, unto my clamours doth reply,"Being likewise scorned in love, as well as I."

"BEinglikewise scorned in love as well as I"By that self-loving Boy; which did disdainTo hear her, after him for love to cry:For which in dens obscure she doth remain.Yet doth she answer to each speech and wordAnd renders back the last of what we speak.But 'specially, if she might have her choice,She of "Unkindness" would her talk forth break.She loves to hear of Love's most sacred name;Although, poor Nymph, in love she was despised:And ever since she hides her head for shame,That her true meaning was so lightly prized.She, pitying me, part of my woes doth hear;As you, good Shepherds, list'ning now shall hear.

O fairestFair, to thee I make my plaint,my plaint,To thee from whom my cause of grief doth spring:doth spring:Attentive be unto the groans, sweet Saint!sweet Saint!Which unto thee in doleful tunes I sing.I sing.My mournful Muse doth always speak of thee.of thee.My love is pure, O do not it disdain!disdain!With bitter sorrow still oppress not me;not me;But mildly look upon me which complain.which complain.Kill not my true-affecting thoughts; but givebut giveSuch precious balm of comfort to my heart,my heart,That casting off despair, in hope to live,hope to live,I may find help at length to ease my smart.to ease my smart.So shall you add such courage to my love,my love,That fortune false, my faith shall not remove.shall not remove.

THePhœnix fair which rich Arabia breeds,When wasting time expires her tragedy;No more onPhœbus'radiant rayes she feeds:But heapeth up great store of spicery;And on a lofty tow'ring cedar tree,With heavenly substance, she herself consumes.From whence she young again appears to be,Out of the cinders of her peerless plumes.So I, which long have frièd in love's flame,The fire, not made of spice, but sighs and tears,Revive again, in hope Disdain to shame,And put to flight the author of my fears.Her eyes revive decaying life in me;Though they augmentors of my thraldom be.

THoughthey augmentors of my thraldom be:For her I live, and her I love and none else.O then, fair eyes, look mildly upon me!Who poor, despised, forlorn, must live alone else:And, likeAmyntas, haunt the desert cells(And moneyless there breathe out thy cruelty)Where none but Care and Melancholy dwell.I, for revenge, toNemesiswill cry!If that will not prevail; my wandering ghost,Which breathless here this love-scorched trunk shall leave,Shall unto thee, with tragic tidings post!How thy disdain did life from soul bereave.Then, all too late, my death thou wilt repent!When murder's guilt, thy conscience shall torment.

WHodoth not know thatLoveis triumphant,Sitting upon the throne of majesty?The gods themselves, his cruel darts do daunt:And he, blind boy, smiles at their misery!Lovemade greatJoveofttimes transform his shape.Lovemade the fierceAlcidesstoop at last.Achilles, stout and bold, could not escapeThe direful doom whichLoveupon him cast.LovemadeLeanderpass the dreadful flood,Which Cestos from Abydos doth divide.Lovemade a chaos where proud Ilion stood.ThroughLovethe CarthaginianDidodied.Thus may we see howLovedoth rule and reign;Bringing those under, which his power disdain.

THoughyou be fair and beautiful withal;And I am black, for which you me despise:Know that your beauty subject is to fall!Though you esteem it at so high a price.And time may come when that whereof you boast,Which is your youth's chief wealth and ornament,Shall withered be by winter's raging frost;When beauty's pride and flowering years are spent.Then wilt thou mourn! when none shall thee respect.Then wilt thou think how thou hast scorned my tears!Then, pitiless, each one will thee neglect;When hoary grey shall dye thy yellow hairs.Then wilt thou think upon poorCorin's case!Who loved thee dear, yet lived in thy disgrace.

O LOVE, leave off with sorrows to torment me!Let my heart's grief and pining pain content thee!The breach is made; I give thee leave to enter!Thee to resist, great god, I dare not venture!Restless desire doth aggravate my anguish;Careful conceits do fill my soul with languish:Be not too cruel, in thy conquest gained!Thy deadly shafts have victory obtained!Batter no more my Fort with fierce affection;But shield me, captive, under thy protection![Two lines wanting.]I yield to thee, O Love, thou art the stronger!Raise then thy siege, and trouble me no longer!

WHatcruel star, or fate, had dominionWhen I was born? that thus my love is crossed.Or from what planet had I derivation?That thus my life in seas of woe is crossed.Doth any live that ever hath such hap,That all their actions are of none effect?Whom Fortune never dandled in her lap;But, as an abject, still doth me reject.Ah, fickle Dame! and yet thou constant artMy daily grief and anguish to increase!And to augment the troubles of my heart;Thou, of these bonds will never me release!So that thy darlings, me to be may know,The true Idea of all Worldly Woe.

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