In black mourn I, All fears scorn I, Living in thrall: All help needing, (O cruel speeding !) Fraughted with gall. My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal 6 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 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 in Weelkes's Madrigals. All our pleasure known to us poor swains, All our evening sport from us is fled, All our love is lost, for love is dead. Thy like ne'er was For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan: 9 Poor Coridon Must live alone, Other help for him I see that there is none XVI. Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame, As well as fancy, 11 partial might: 12 8 lass] The reading in Weelkes's Madrigals: old copy, "love. 9 moan] The reading in England's Helicon: old copy, "woe." 10 smite] I have taken the liberty of altering the reading of the old copy "strike" to " smite," for the sake of the rhyme. 11 fancy] i. e. love. 12 might] i. e. power.—Malone in his last edition adopted Steevens's conjecture "tike," to rhyme with "strike.” And when thou com'st thy tale to tell. But plainly say thou lov’st her well, What though her frowning brows be bent, And twice desire, ere it be day, What though she strive to try her strength, And to her will frame all thy ways; The strongest castle, tower, and town, Serve always with assured trust, Unless thy lady prove unjust, Press never thou to choose anew: When time shall serve, be thou not slack The wiles and guiles that women work, 13 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. But soft; enough,-too much I fear, 13 Think women, &c.] These four lines are scarcely intelligible 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." Yet will she blush, here be it said, As it fell upon a day,14 XVIL In the merry month of May, Which a grove of myrtles made, Trees did grow, and plants did spring: That to hear her so complain, Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee; 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 year. |