An Excellent Sonnet: OR, The Swaines complaint, whose cruell doome, It was to love hee knew not whom.
To the tune of,
Bodkins Galiard.
YOu gentle Nimphs that on the Meddowes play, and oft relate the Loves of Shepheards young,
Come sit you downe, if that you please to stay, now may you heare an uncouth passion Song:
A Lad there is, and I am that poore groome,
That's fal'n in love, and cannot tell with whom.
Oh doe not smile at sorrow as a jest, with others cares good natures moved be:
And I should wéepe if you had my unrest, then at my griefe how can you merry be?
Ah, where is tender pitty now become?
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
I that have oft the rarest features view'd, and beauty in her best perfection séene,
I that have laugh't at them that love pursu'd, and ever frée from such perfections béene,
Loe now at last so cruell is my doome,
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
My heart is full nigh bursting with desire, yet cannot tell from whence these longings flow,
My brest doth burne, but she that light the fire, I never saw, nor can I come to know:
So great a blisse my fortune kéepes me from,
That though I dearely love, I know not whom.
Ere I had twice foure Springs renewed séene, the force of beauty I began to probe,
And ere I nine yéeres old had fully beene, it taught me how to frame a sound of love,
And little thought I this day should have come,
Before that I to love had found out whom.
For on my chin the mossy downe you sée, and in my vaines well heated blood doth gloe,
Of Summers I have séene twice thrée times thrée, and fast my youthfull time away doth goe:
That much I feare, I aged shall become,
And still complaine, I love I know not whom.
Oh why had I a heart bestow'd on me, to cherish deare affections so inclin'd,
Since I am so unh
[...]ppy borne to be, no object for so true a love to find,
When I am dead it will be mist of some,
Yet now I live, I love I know not whom.
I to a thousand beauteous Nimphs am knowne, a hundred Ladies favours doe I sweare,
I with as many halfe in love am growne, yet none of them I find can be my deare,
Me thinkes I have a Mistresse yet to come,
Which makes me sing, I love I know not whom.
The second part,
To the same tune.
THere lives no swaine doth stronger passion probe for her, whom most he covets to possesse,
Then doth my heart that being full of love, knowes not to whom it may the same professe,
For he that is despis
[...]d hath sorrow some,
But he hath more, that loves, & knowes not whom.
Knew I my Love, as many others doe, to some one object might my thoughts be bent,
So they divided, wandring should not goe, untill the soules united force be spent,
As he that séekes, and never findes a home,
Such is my rest, that love, and know not whom.
Those whom the frownes of jealous friends divide, may live to méet and descant of their woe,
And he hath gain'd a Lady for his Bride, that durst not wooe his Maide a while agoe:
But oh what ends unto my hopes can come,
That am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
Poore
Collin grieves that he was late disdain'd, and
Clores doth for
Willies absence pine,
Sad
Thirthes wéepes for his sicke
Phebe pain'd, but all their sorrowes cannot equall mine,
A greater care on me, alas, 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 agoe,
I might despaire, and so an end would come.
But oh I love, and cannot tell with whom.
Once in a dreame me thought my love I view'd, but never waking could her face behold,
And doubtlesse that resemblance was but shew'd, that more my tired heart torment it should.
For since that time more griev'd I am become,
And more in love, I cannot tell with whom.
When on my bed at night to rest I lye, my watchfull eyes with teares bedew my chéekes,
And then, oh would it once were day I cry, yet when it comes I am as farre to séeke,
For who can tell, though all the earth he rome,
Or when or where, to finde he knowes not whom.
Oh if she be amongst the beauteous traines, of all the Nimphs that haunt the severall Kills,
Or if you know her Ladies of the plaines, 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.
Printed at London for I. Wright dwelling in Gilt-spurre street neere New-gate.
FINIS.