The Tragedy of Phillis, complaining of the disloyal Love of Amyntas.  
To a pleasant new Court Tune.  

AMyntas on a Summer's day,  
to shun Apollo's beams,  
Was driving of his flocks away,  
to taste some cooling streams,  
And through a Forest as he went,  
unto a river side,  
A voice which from a grove was sent  
invited him to bide.   

The voice well seemed for to bewray  
some mal-contented mind:  
For oft times did he hear it say,  
Ten thousand times unkind,  
The remnant of that raged moan,  
did all escape his ear:  
For every word brought forth a groan,  
and every groan a tear.   

And nearer when he did repair,  
both face and voice he knew:  
He saw that Phillis was come there,  
her plaints for to renew.  
Thus leaving her unto her plaints,  
and sorrow-flaking groans:  
He heard her deadly discontents,  
thus all break forth at once.   

Amyntas, is my love to thee,  
of such a light account,  
That thou disdainest to look on me,  
or love as thou wast wont?  
Were those the oaths that thou didst make,  
the vows thou didst conceive,  
When I for thy contentments sake,  
mine heart's delight did leave?   

How oft didst thou protest to me,  
the heavens should turn to nought,  
The Sun should first obscured be,  
ere thou wouldst change thy thought?  
Then Heaven, dissolve without delay,  
Sun show thy face no more:  
Amyntas love is lost for aye,  
and woe is me therefore.   

Well might I, if I had been wise,  
foreseen what now I find:  
But two much love did fill mine eyes,  
and made my judgement blind:  
But ah, alas: th'effect doth prove,  
thy drifts were but deceit,  
For true and undissembled love,  
will never turn to hate.   

All thy behaviours were (God knows)  
too smooth and too discreet:  
Like Sugar which empoisoned grows,  
suspect because it's sweet:  
Thine oaths & vows did promise more,  
their well thou couldst perform,  
Much like a calm that comes before  
an unsuspected storm.   

God knows, it would not grieve me much,  
for to be killed for thee:  
But oh: too near it doth me touch,  
that thou shouldst murder me:  
God knows, I care not for the pain  
can come for want of breath:  
'Tis thy unkindness cruel swain,  
that grieves me to the death.   

Amyntas, tell me, if thou may,  
if any fault of mine,  
Hath given thee cause thus to betray  
mine heart's delight and thine?  
No, no, alas, it could not be,  
my love to thee was such,  
Unless if that I urged thee,  
in loving thee too much.   

But ah, alas, what do I gain,  
by these my fond complaints?  
My dolour double thy disdain,  
my grief thy joy augments:  
Although it yield no greater good,  
if oft doth ●ase my mind:  
For to reproach the ingratitude  
of him who is unkind.   

With that, her hand, cold, wan, and pale,  
upon her breast she lays:  
And seeing that her breath did fail,  
she sighs, and then she says,  
Amyntas, and with that pooremaid,  
she sighed again full sore:  
That after that she never said,  
nor sighed, nor breathed no more.   
FINIS.   

Printed by the Assigns of Thomas Symcocke.