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For Corin was her only joy,
Who forst' her not a pin.
How often would she flowers twine,
How often garlands make Of cowslips and of columbine ?
And all for Corin's sake.
But Corin he had hawks to lure,
And forsed more the field; Of lover's law he took no cure,
For once he was beguiled.
Harpalus prevailed nought,
His labour all was lost ; For he was farthest from her thought,
And yet he lov'd her most.
Therefore wax'd he both pale and lean,
And dry as clot of clay ;
His colour gone away.
His beard it had not long been shave,
His hair hụng all unkempt ;
A man fit most for the grave,
Whom spiteful love had spent.
His eyes were red, and all fore-watch'd,"
His face besprent? with tears; It seem'd unhap had him long hatch'd,
In midst of his despairs.
His clothes were black, and also bare,
As one forlorn was he; Upon his head always he ware
A wreath of willow tree,
His beasts he kept upon the hill,
And he sate in the dale; And thus, with sighs and sorrows shrill,
He 'gan to tell his tale:
• O Harpalus ! (thus would he say)
“ Unhappiest under sun! “ The cause of thine unhappy day
By love was first begun.
6. For thou went'st first by suit to seek
“ A tiger to make tame; • Overwatched, tired with watching. • Besprinkled.
“ That sets not by thy love a leek,
• But makes thy grief her game.
“ As easy it were for to convert
6. The frost into the flame, “ As for to turn a froward heart,
" Whom thou so fain would'st frame.
« Corin he liveth careless,
“ He leaps among the leaves ; 6. He eats the fruits of thy redress,'
“ Thou reapst, he takes the sheaves.
“ My beasts, awhile your food refrain,
“ And hark your herdman's sound, “ Whom spiteful love, alas ! hath slain,
“ Through-girta with many a wound.
“ O happy be ye, beastés wild,
“ That here your pasture takes; “ I see that ye be not beguild, ,
“ Of these your faithful makes.3
". The hart he feedeth by the hind,
“ The buck hard by the doe, · Labour.
• Pierced-through. 3 Mates.
« The turtle-dove is not unkind
66 To him that loves her so.
“But, welaway! that nature wrought
“ Thee, Phillida, so fair; “ For I may say that I have bought
“ Thy beauty all too dear!
66 What reason is that cruelty
“ With beauty should have part ? 66 Or else that such great tyranny
“ Should dwell in woman's heart?
“O, Cupid, grant this my request,
« And do not stop thine cars, " That she may feel within her breast,
“ The pains of my despairs.
66 Of Corin that is careless
“ That she may crave her fee, “ As I have done in great distress
“ That lov'd her faithfully.
“ But since that I shall die her slave,
" Her slave and eke her thrall, “ Write you, my friends, upon my grave,
6. This chance that is befall, VOL. II,