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النشر الإلكتروني

THE UNKNOWN SHEPHERD'S

COMPLAINT.

My flocks feed not! My ewes breed not!
My rams speed not! All is amiss!
Love is denying! Faith is defying!
Hearts renying, causer of this!
All my merry jigs are quite forgot!
All my Lady's love is lost, God wot!
Where her faith was firmly fixed in love;
There a 'Nay!' is placed, without remove.
One silly cross wrought all my loss!

O, frowning FORTUNE! cursèd fickle Dame!
For now I see, inconstancy

More in women than in men remain!

In black, mourn I! All fears scorn I!
Love hath forlorn me, living in thrall!
Heart is bleeding, all help needing!

O, cruel speeding, fraughted with gall!
My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal!
My wether's bell rings doleful knell!
My curtail dog, that wont to have played
Plays not at all! but seems afraid.

With sighs so deep, procures to weep

In howling wise, to see my doleful plight. How sighs resound, through heartless ground, Like a thousand vanquished men in bloody fight.

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Clear wells spring not! Sweet birds sing not!
Green plants bring not forth their dye!
Herds stand weeping! Flocks all sleeping!
Nymphs back peeping fearfully!

All our pleasure known to us poor Swains,
All our merry meeting on the plains,
All our evening sports, from us are fled!
All our love is lost; for love is dead!

Farewell, sweet Love! thy like ne'er was

For sweet content! the cause of all my moan. Poor CORIDON must live alone!

Other help for him, I see that there is none!

As it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade,

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing;
Trees did grow, and plants did spring.
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone.

She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st Ditty,
That to hear, it was great pity!
'Fie! Fie! Fie!' now would she cry,
'Teru! Teru!' by-and-by.

That to hear her so complain,

Scarce I could from tears refrain:
For her griefs, so lively shown,
Made me think upon my own.

'Ah,' thought I, 'thou mourn'st in vain! None takes pity on thy pain !

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee!
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee!
King PANDION, he is dead!

All thy friends are lapped in lead!
All thy fellow birds do sing,

Careless of thy sorrowing!

Whilst, as fickle FORTUNE smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled.

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Every one that flatters thee,

Is no friend in misery.

Words are easy, like the wind:
Faithful friends are hard to find!
Every man will be thy friend,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want!

"If that one be prodigal, "Bountiful!" they will him call; And with suchlike flattering,

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They have, at commandment!
But if FORTUNE once do frown,
Then, farewell, his great renown!
They that fawned on him before,
Use his company no more!

'He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need!
If thou sorrow, he will weep!
If thou wake, he cannot sleep!
Thus, of every grief in heart,
He, with thee, doth bear a part!

'These are certain signs, to know
Faithful friend from flatt'ring foe.'

IN PRAISE OF MUSIC AND POETRY. IF Music and sweet Poetry agree,

As they must needs, the Sister and the Brother! Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me,

Because thou lov'st the one; and I, the other. DOWLAND to thee is dear! whose heavenly touch Upon the lute doth ravish human sense; SPENSER, to me! whose deep conceit is such

As, passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound That PHOEBUS' lute, the Queen of Music, makes! And I, in deep delight am chiefly drowned,

When as himself, to singing he betakes! One God is God of both, as Poets feign: One Knight loves both; and both in thee remain!

AGAINST THE DISPRAISERS

OF POETRY.

CHAUCER is dead; and GoWER lies in grave!
The Earl of SURREY, long ago, is gone!
Sir PHILIP SIDNEY'S soul, the heavens have!

GEORGE GASCOIGNE, him beforne, was tombed in stone!
Yet though their bodies lie full low in ground,
As every thing must die, that erst was born;
Their living fame, no fortune can confound!
Nor ever shall their labours be forlorn!
And you, that discommend sweet Poetry,

So that the subject of the same be good,
Here, may you see your fond simplicity!

Sith Kings have favoured it, of royal blood.
The King of Scots, now living, is a Poet;
As his Lepanto and his Furies show it!

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