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 play'd,
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 vanquish'd men in bloody fight!

Clear wells spring not,

Sweet birds sing not,

Green plants bring not
Forth; they die :
Herds stand weeping,

6 no deal] i. e. in no degree.

7 With sighs so deep,

Procures, &c.] "The dog procures (i. e. manages matters) so as to weep." STEEVENS. The whole passage is probably corrupt. Shakespeare certainly wrote none of this wretched piece. Malone in his last edition printed it as given i Weelkes's Madrigals.

Flocks all sleeping,

Nymphs back peeping

Fearfully.

All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
All our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sport from us is fled,
All our love is lost, for love is dead.
Farewell, sweet lass,8

Thy like ne'er was

For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan: " Poor Coridon

Must live alone,

Other help for him I see that there is none.

XVI.

Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame,

And stall'd the deer that thou should'st strike,

Let reason rule things worthy blame,

As well as partial fancy 10 like: 11

Take counsel of some wiser head,
Neither too young, nor yet unwed.

And when thou com'st thy tale to tell,
Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk,

lass] The reading in Weelkes's Madrigals: old copy "love."

moan] The reading in England's Helicon: old copy, 200e."

10 fancy] i. e. love.

11 Corrected by a manuscript of the time.

Lest she some subtle practice smell;
(A cripple soon can find a halt :)
But plainly say thou lov'st her well,
And set thy person forth to sell.

What though her frowning brows be bent,
Her cloudy looks will calm ere night;
And then too late she will repent,
That thus dissembled her delight;

And twice desire, ere it be day,

What though she strive to try her strength,
And ban and brawl, and say thee nay,
Her feeble force will yield at length,
When craft hath taught her thus to say:
"Had women been so strong as men,
In faith you had not had it then."

And to her will frame all thy ways;
Spare not to spend, and chiefly there
Where thy desert may merit praise,
By ringing in thy lady's ear:

The strongest castle, tower, and town,
The golden bullet beats it down.

Serve always with assured trust,
And in thy suit be humble, true;
Unless thy lady prove unjust,

Press never thou to choose anew:

When time shall serve, be thou not slack
To proffer, though she put thee back.

The wiles and guiles that women work,
Dissembled with an outward show,

The tricks and toys that in them lurk,
The cock that treads them shall not know.
Have you not heard it said full oft,
A woman's nay doth stand for nought?

18 Think women still to strive with men, To sin, and never for to saint:

There is no heaven, by holy then,

When time with age shall them attaint.
Were kisses all the joys in bed,
One woman would another wed.

But soft; enough,-too much I fear,
Lest that my mistress hear my song;
She'll not stick to round me i'th' ear,
To teach my tongue to be so long:

Yet will she blush, here be it said,
To hear her secrets so bewray'd.

18 Think women, &c.] These four lines are scarcely intelli gible: in a MS. copy of the poem, belonging to S. Lysons Esq. they stand thus:

"Think women love to match with men,

And not to live so like a saint:

Here is no heaven; they holy then

Begin, when age doth them attaint."

As it fell upon a day,1

XVII.

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,
Lean'd 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 mine own.

Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain;
None take 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 lapp'd in lead:

14 This and the next piece were in all probability written by Richard Barnefield, as they are found in a collection of his Poems printed in 1598. The Passionate Pilgrim was first published in the following vear.

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