The Tragedy of Phillis, complaining of the disloyal love of Amyntas. To a new Court tune.  

AMintas 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,  
hard by a river's side,  
A voice which from a Grove was sent  
invited him to bide.   

The voice well seemed for to bewray  
some malcontented mind,  
For oft-times did he he are it say,  
ten thousand times unkind:  
The remnant of that raging moan  
did all escape his ear,  
For every word brought forth a groan,  
and every groan 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 wert 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 obscuted 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 too much love did fill mine eyes,  
and made my judgement blind:  
But ah, alas! th'effect doth prove,  
thy drifts are 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 and vows did promise more  
Than well thou couldst perform,  
Much like a calm that comes before  
an unexpected storm.   

God knows it would 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 loss 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 shine?  
No, no, alas, it could not be,  
my love to thee was such,  
Unless that if I urged thee,  
in loving thee too much.   

But ah, alas! What do I gain,  
by those my fond complaints?  
My dolour doubles thy disdain,  
my grief thy joy augments:  
Although it yield no greater good,  
it oft death ease my mind,  
For to reproach th'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 poor Maid,  
she sighed again full sore,  
That after that she never said,  
nor sighed, nor breathed no more.   
FINIS.  
M.A.   

The complaint of the shepherd Harpalus To a pleasant new tune.  
 

Poor Harpalus, oppressed with love,  
Sat by a crystal Brooke,  
Thinking his sorrows to remove,  
ofttimes therein did look:  
And hearing how on pebble stones,  
the murmuring River ran,  
As if it had bewailed his grons,  
unto it thus began:   

Fair streams (quoth he) that pities me,  
and hears my matchless moan,  
If thou be going to the Sea,  
as I do now suppone:  
Attend my plaints past all relief,  
which dolefully I breathe  
Acquaint the Sea-nymphs with the grief  
which still procures my death.   

Who sitting in the cliffy Rocks,  
may in their songs express,  
While as they comb their golden locks,  
Poor Harpalus distress:  
And so perhaps some Passenger,  
that passeth by the way,  
May stay and listen for to hear,  
them sing this doleful Lay.   

Poor Harpalus a shepherd swain,  
more rich in youth than store,  
Loved fair Philena, hapless man,  
Philena, oh therefore!  
Who still remorecelesse hearted Maid,  
Took pleasure in his pain,  
And his good will, poor soul, repaid  
with undeserved disdain.   

Ne'er shepherd loved shepherdess  
more faithfully than he,  
Ne'er shepherd yet beloved less  
of shepherdess could be:  
How oft did he with dying looks,  
to her his woes impart.  
How oft his sighs did testify  
the dolour of his heart.   

How oft from Valleys to the Hills,  
did he his grief rehearse?  
How oft re-ecchoed they his ills,  
aback again (alas?)  
How oft on barks of stately Pines,  
of Beech, of holly-green,  
Did he engrave in mournful lines,  
the grief he did sustain?   

Yet all his plaints could have no place,  
to change Philena's mind,  
The more his sorrows did increase,  
the more she proved unkind:  
The thought thereof with wearied care  
Poor Harpalus did move,  
That overcome with high despair,  
he lost both life and love.   
Finis.   

London, Printed by E.P. for Francis Coles in the Old-bailey.