The Mournful Shepherd: OR Torment of Loving, and not being Loved again. A SONG  made by a Gentleman who Died for his cruel Mistress. 
No Torment can be found no greater pain  
Then truly Loving and not Loved again;  
For that's a strange Disease which Racks, the mind,  
Still routs the Judgement, and does Reason blind:  
Raises a Civil War, distrasts the Soul,  
Whilst Fancy like a Raging Sea does roll:  
The Lover's dreams of nothing but strange Charms.  
And often thinks his Mistress in his Arms;  
But waking finds he did embrace a Shade;  
Which all his hopes with it he had Conveyed,  
To a Pleasant New Tune, called Could Man his Wish Obtain, etc.  
Played and Sung at the King's Playhouse.  

 

COuld man his wish obtain,  
how happy would he be;  
But wishes seldom gain,  
And hopes are but in vain,  
if Fortunes disagree:  
Pity you Powers of Love,  
our Infelicicy;  
Why should the Fates Conspire,  
To frustrate my desire,  
Since Love's the gentle fire  
that keeps the World alive:  
But me it puts to pain,  
My Wishes are in vain,  
Nor promise any hope to gain.   

I love and still I view,  
but dare not tell my mind,  
Should I my flames pursue,  
I might that Bliss undo,  
which is for her designed,  
A Bliss that's far above,  
more lasting, rich, and kind;  
Though hopes successless prove,  
My heart shall ne'er remove,  
From wishing of her Love,  
in Fortune's Triumph led;  
And though she banish me,  
If she but happy be,  
'twill please my Ghost when I am dead.   

Much like a Tyrant sits  
th' insulting Prince of Love,  
And with his Arrows hits  
Poor Mortals as it fits,  
his humour from above;    

The Second Part,  
To the same Tune.  
 

But pity I implore.  
O let some pity move:  
But ah, what is my Error,  
when love thus proves a Terror,  
That is the world's bright Mirror,  
and guides the Starry frame;  
The flame that's in my breast,  
Alas disturbs my rest,  
Since I of hopes am dispossessed,   

Thou Centre of my joy,  
the fairesis of her kind,  
Does still with frowns destroy,  
My Bliss by proving Coy,  
whilst Love torments my mind;  
And scorches me in pain,  
that I no quiet find:  
Pity some gentle power,  
And rain a golden Shower,  
For sure nought else can wooe-her  
to cool my raging Flame:  
Alas, that Gold should prove  
The Orb that still does move  
the happy Sphere of sacred love.   

O'er Hills and Rocks I stray,  
through fields and going ●●ade  
I take my restless way,  
To Venus oft I pray,  
to grant me speedy aid,  
And pity my distress,  
or how the cruel Maid:  
Whose eyes do Lightning bear,  
Which blast me with despair,  
And takes me in Love's snare,  
nor can I thence escape:  
But strugele there in vain,  
And still does suffer pain,  
Whilst I to free myself do strain.   

Witness ye Founts and Springs,  
Groves, and each pleasant Head,  
Each warbling Bird that sings,  
And spreads his airy wings;  
and bleeting flocks that feed:  
How cruel the fair Nymph  
to me as ever been.  
But Tyrant love no more,  
To persecute give o'er,  
Keep, keep your shafts in store,  
of them there is no need:  
For lick the Swan, now I,  
To sing my last leave try,  
Which done, I thus lie down & die.  
He Dies.    
FINIS.   

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Sign of the Golden-Ball, in Pie-corner.