An Excellent Sonnet: OR, The Swains complaint, whose cruel doom, It was to love he knew not whom.  
To the tune of, Bodkins Galliard.  
 


YOu gentle Nymphs that on the Meadows play, and oft relate the Loves of Shepherds young,  
Come sit you down, if that you please to stay, now may you hear an uncouth passion Song:  
A Lad there is, and I am that poor groom,  
That's fallen in love, and cannot tell with whom.   

Oh do not smile at sorrow as a jest, with others cares good natures moved be:  
And I should weep if you had my unrest, then at my grief how can you merry be?  
Ah, where is tender pity now become?  
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.   

I that have oft the rarest features viewed, and beauty in her best perfection seen,  
I that have laughed at them that love pursued, and ever free from such perfections been,  
Lo now at last so cruel is my doom,  
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 breast doth burn, but she that light the fire, I never saw, nor can I come to know:  
So great a bliss my fortune keeps me from,  
That though I dear love, I know not whom.   

Ere I had twice four Springs renewed seen, the force of beauty I began to probe,  
And ere I nine years old had fully been, 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 down you see, and in my veins well heated blood doth gloe,  
Of Summers I have seen twice three times three, and fast my youthful time away doth go:  
That much I fear, I aged shall become,  
And still complain, I love I know not whom.   

Oh why had I a heart bestowed on me, to cherish dear affections so inclined,  
Since I am so unhappy borne to be, no object for so true a love to find,  
When I am dead it will be missed of some,  
Yet now I live, I love I know not whom.   

I to a thousand beauteous Nymphs am known, a hundred Ladies favours do I swear,  
I with as many half in love am grown, yet none of them I find can be my dear,  
Me thinks I have a Mistress yet to come,  
Which makes me sing, I love I know not whom.    

The second part,  
To the same tune.  
 

THere lives no swain doth stronger passion probe for her, whom most he covets to possess,  
Then doth my heart that being full of love, knows not to whom it may the same profess,  
For he that is despised hath sorrow some,  
But he hath more, that loves, & knows not whom.   

Knew I my Love, as many others do, to some one object might my thoughts be bend,  
So they divided, wand'ring should not go, until the soul's united force be spent,  
As he that seeks, and never finds a home,  
Such is my rest, that love, and know not whom.   

Those whom the frowns of jealous friends divide, may live to meet and descant of their woe,  
And he hath gained a Lady for his Bride, that durst not woo his Maid a while ago:  
But oh what ends unto my hopes can come,  
That am in love, and cannot tell with whom.   

Poor Collen grieves that he was late disdained, and Clores doth for Willies absence pine,  
Sad Thirthes weeps for his sick Phebe pained, but all their sorrows cannot equal 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 ago,  
I might despair, and so an end would come.  
But oh I love, and cannot tell with whom.   

Once in a dream me thought my love I viewed, but never waking could her face behold,  
And doubtless that resemblance was but showed, that more my tired 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 cheeks,  
And then, oh 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 room,  
Or when or where, to find he knows not whom.   

Oh if she be amongst the beauteous trains, of all the Nymphs that haunt the several Kills,  
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.     

Printed at London for I. Wright dwelling in Gilt-spurre street near Newgate.  
FINIS.