A man most fit even for the grave,
Whom spitefull love had spent.
His eyes were red, and all forewacht;
His face besprent with teares:
It semde unhap had him long hatcht,
In mids of his dispaires.
His clothes were blacke, and also bare;
As one forlorne was he;
Upon his head always he ware
A wreath of wyllow tree.
His beastes he kept upon the hyll,
And he sate in the dale;
And thus with sighes and sorrowes shril,
He gan to tell his tale.
"Oh Harpalus!" (thus would he say)
"Unhappiest under sunne!
The cause of thine unhappy day,
By love was first begunne.
"For thou wentest first by sute to seeke
A tigre to make tame,
That settes not by thy love a leeke;
But makes thy griefe her game.
"As easy it were for to convert
The frost into a flame;
As for to turne a frowarde hert,
Whom thou so faine wouldst frame.
"Corin he liveth carelesse
He leapes among the leaves:
He eates the frutes of thy redresse:
Thou reapst, he takes the sheaves.
"My beastes a whyle your foode refraine,
And harke your herdmans sounde;
Whom spitefull love, alas! hath slaine,
Through-girt with many a wounde.
"O happy be ye, beastès wild,
That here your pasture takes:
I se that ye be not begilde
Of these your faithfull makes.
"The hart he feedeth by the hinde:
The bucke harde by the do:
The turtle-dove is not unkinde
To him that loves her so.
"The ewe she hath by her the ramme:
The yong cow hath the bull: