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,
Lov'd fair Philena, hapless man,
Philena oh therefore!

Who still, remorseless-hearted maid,

Took pleasure in his pain

:

And his good will, poor soul, repaid,
With undeserv'd disdain.

Ne'er shepherd lov'd a 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 vallies to the hills
Did he his grief rehearse,
How oft re-echoed 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 encrease
The more she prov'd unkind,

The thought thereof with wearied care

Poor Harpalus did move,

That, overcome with high despair,

He lost both life and love.

XXIV.

SHEPHERD'S DELIGHT.

To the tune of Frog's Galliard.

[Black letter, for the Assigns of Symcocke.]

ON yonder hill there springs a flower,
Fair befall the dainty sweet,

And by that flower there stands a bower

Where all the heavenly Muses meet,
And in that bower there stands a chair,
Fringed all about with gold,

And therein sits the fairest fair
That ever did mine eyes behold.

It was Phillida fair and bright,
And the shepherd's only joy,
She whom Venus most did spite,
And the blinded little boy,
It was she the wise, the rich,

Whom all the world did joy to see,
It was, Ipsa quæ, the which,

There was none but only she.

Thou art the shepherd's queen,
Pity me, thy woful swain,
For by thy virtue have been seen

Dead men restored to life again;
Look on me now with thy fair eyes
One smiling look and I am gone,
Look on me for I am he,

Thy poor afflicted Corydon.

Dead I am to all delights,

Except thy mercy quicken me, Grant, oh queen, or else I die,

A salve for this my malady,

The while we sing with cheerful noise, Wood nymphs and satyrs all may play, With silver sounding music's voice,

Rejoicing at this happy day.

XXV.

"THE NORTHERN LASSES LAMENTATION,

OR

The Unhappy Maid's Misfortune."

"Since she did from her friends depart,
No earthly thing can cheer her heart,
But still she doth her case lament,
Being always filled with discontent,
Resolving to do nought but mourn,
Till to the north she doth return.”

To the tune,-I would I were in my own country.

A NORTH Country lass

Up to London did pass,
Although with her nature it did not agree,
Which made her repent,

And so often lament,

Still wishing again in the North for to be,

O the oak, the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
Do flourish at home in my own country.