PHYLIDA

HYLIDA was a faire mayde,

As fresh as any flowre;

Whom Harpalus the herdman prayde

To be his paramour.

Harpalus, and eke Corin,

Were herdmen both yfere:

And Phylida could twist and spinne,
And thereto fing full clere.

5

But Phyllida was all to coy

For Harpalus to winne;

For Corin was her onely joy,

Who forft her not a pinne.

How often would fhe flowers twine!

How often garlandes make,

Of couflips, and of colombine!

And al for Corins fake.

But Corin he had haukes to lure,

And forced more the field:

10

15

Of lovers lawe he toke no cure

For once he was begilde.

Harpalus prevailed nought,

His labour all was loft:

For he was fardeft from her thought,
And yet he loved her most.

20

A man most fit even for the grave,
Whom fpitefull love had spent.

His eyes were red, and all forewatched,

His face befprent with teares:

It femde unhap had him long hatched,

In mids of his difpaires.

His clothes were blacke, and alfo bare,

As one forlorne was he:

Upon his head alwayes he ware

A wreath of wyllow tree.

35

to

His beaftes he kept upon the hyll,

And he fate in the dale:

And thus, with fighes and forowes fhril,

He gan to tell his tale.

O Harpalus! (thus woud he fay)
Unhappieft under funne!

45

The caufe of thine unhappy day

By love was first begunne.

For thou wenteft first by fute to seeke

50

A tigre to make tame;

That fettes not by thy love a leeke,

But makes thy griefe her game.

My beaftes, a whyle your foode refraine,
And harke your herdmans founde,
Whom fpitefull love, alas! hath flaine,

Through-girt with many a wounde.

O happy be ye, beaftés wilde,

65

That here your pasture takes :

I fe that ye be not begilde

Of these your faithfull makes.

The hart he feedeth by the hinde,

The bucke hard by the do; The turtle dove is not vnkinde To him that loves her fo.

70

The ewe she hath by her the ramme,
The yong cow hath the bull;

The calfe with many a lufty lambe
Do fede their hunger full.

75

But welaway! that nature wrought

Thee, Phillyda, fo faire :

For I may fay that I haue bought
Thy beauty all to deare.

What reafon is it that crueltie

With beautie fhould have part?

Or els that fuch great tyranny

Should dwell in womans hart?

O Cupide, graunt this my request,

And do not floppe thine eares,

That he may feele within her brest,
The paines of my difpaires.

Of Corin that is caréleffe

That fhe may crave her fee, As I have done in great diftreffe, That loved her faithfully.

But fins that I fhall die her flave,
Her flave and eke her thrall:

Write you, my frendes, upon my grave,
This chaunce that is befall.

Here lieth unhappy Harpelus,
By cruell love now flaine;
Whom Phillyda unjustly thus

Hath murdred with difdaine.

90

95

109