Classic Poem

ACT III.

SCENA I.

Enter Colin , who sings his passion of love .

O gentle L OVE , ungentle for thy deed,
Thou mak'st my heart
A bloody mark
With piercing shot to bleed!
Shoot soft, sweet Love, for fear thou shoot amiss,
For fear too keen
Thy arrows been,
And hit the heart where my beloved is.
Too fair that fortune were, nor never I
Shall be so blest,
Among the rest,
That Love shall seize on her by sympathy.
Then since with Love my prayers bear no boot,
This doth remain
To cease my pain,
I take the wound, and die at Venus' foot.

Enter H OBBINOL , D IGGON , and T HENOT .

Hob . Poor Colin, woeful man, thy life forspoke by love,
What uncouth fit, what malady, is this that thou dost prove?
Dig . Or Love is void of physic clean, or Love's our common wrack,
That gives us bane to bring us low, and let[s] us medicine lack.
Hob . That ever Love had reverence 'mong silly shepherd swains!
Belike that humour hurts them most that most might be their pains.
The . Hobbin, it is some other god that cherisheth their sheep,
For sure this Love doth nothing else but make our herdmen weep.
Dig . And what a hap is this, I pray, when all our woods rejoice,
For Colin thus to be denied his young and lovely choice?
The . She hight indeed so fresh and fair that well it is for thee,
Colin, and kind hath been thy friend, that Cupid could not see.
Hob . And whither wends yon thriveless swain? like to the stricken deer,
Seeks he dictam[n]um for his wound within our forest here?
Dig . He wends to greet the Queen of Love, that in these woods doth won,
With mirthless lays to make complaint to Venus of her son.
The . Ah, Colin, thou art all deceived! she dallies with the boy,
And winks at all his wanton pranks, and thinks thy love a toy.
Hob . Then leave him to his luckless love, let him abide his fate;
The sore is rankled all too far, our comfort comes too late.
Dig . Though Thestylis the scorpion be that breaks his sweet assault,
Yet will Rhamnusia vengeance take on her disdainful fault.
The . Lo, yonder comes the lovely nymph, that in these Ida vales
Plays with Amyntas' lusty boy, and coys him in the dales!
Hob . Thenot, methinks her cheer is changed, her mirthful looks are laid,
She frolics not; pray god, the lad have not beguiled the maid!

oe NONE entereth with a wreath of poplar on her head .

Manent Pastores.

oen . Beguiled, disdained, and out of love! Live long, thou poplar-tree,
And let thy letters grow in length, to witness this with me,
Ah, Venus, but for reverence unto thy sacred name,
To steal a silly maiden's love, I might account it blame
And if the tales be true I hear, and blush for to recite,
Thou dost me wrong to leave the plains and dally out of sight.
False Paris, this was not thy vow, when thou and I were one,
To range and change old love for new; but now those days be gone.
But I will find the goddess out, that she thy vow may read,
And fill these woods with my laments for thy unhappy deed.
Hob . So fair a face, so foul a thought to harbour in his breast!
Thy hope consumed, poor nymph, thy hap is worse than all the rest.
oen . Ah, shepherds, you bin full of wiles, and whet your wits on books,
And rape poor maids with pipes and songs, and sweet alluring looks!
Dig . Mis-speak not all for his amiss; there bin that keepen flocks,
That never chose but once, nor yet beguiled love with mocks.
oen . False Paris, he is none of those; his trothless double deed
Will hurt a many shepherds else that might go nigh to speed.
The . Poor Colin, that is ill for thee, that art as true in trust
To thy sweet smart as to his nymph Paris hath bin unjust.
oen . Ah, well is she hath Colin won, that nill no other love!
And woe is me, my luck is loss, my pains no pity move!
Hob . Farewell, fair nymph, sith he must heal alone that gave the wound;
There grows no herb of such effect upon Dame Nature's ground.

Manet oe NONE . M ERCURY entereth with V ULCAN'S Cyclops.

Mer . Here is a nymph that sadly sits, and she beleek
Can tell some news, Pyracmon, of the jolly swain we seek:
Dare wage my wings, the lass doth love, she looks so bleak and thin;
And 'tis for anger or for grief: but I will talk begin.
oen . Break out, poor heart, and make complaint, the mountain flocks to move,
What proud repulse and thankless scorn thou hast received of love.
Mer . She singeth; sirs, be hush'd a while.

oe NONE singeth as she sits .

oe NONE'S Complaint .

Melpomene, the Muse of tragic songs,
With mournful tunes, in stole of dismal hue,
Assist a silly nymph to wail her woe,
And leave thy lusty company behind.

Thou luckless wreath! becomes not me to wear.
The poplar-tree for triumph of my love:
Then, as my joy, my pride of love, is left,
Be thou unclothed of thy lovely green;

And in thy leaves my fortune written be,
And them some gentle wind let blow abroad,
That all the world may see how false of love
False Paris hath to his oenone been.

The song ended , oe NONE sitting still , M ERCURY speaketh .

Mer . Good day, fair maid; weary belike with following of your game,
I wish thee cunning at thy will, to spare or strike the same.
oen . I thank you, sir; my game is quick, and rids a length of ground,
And yet I am deceived, or else 'a had a deadly wound.
Mer . Your hand perhaps did swerve awry.
oen . Or else it was my heart.
Mer . Then sure 'a plied his footmanship.
oen . 'A play'd a ranging part.
Mer . You should have given a deeper wound.
oen . I could not that for pity.
Mer . You should have eyed him better, then.
oen . Blind love was not so witty.
Mer . Why, tell me, sweet, are you in love?
oen . Or would I were not so.
Mer . Ye mean because 'a does ye wrong.
oen. Perdy, the more my woe.
Mer . Why, mean ye Love, or him ye loved?
oen . Well may I mean them both.
Mer . Is love to blame?
oen . The Queen of Love hath made him false his troth.
Mer . Mean ye indeed, the Queen of Love?
oen . Even wanton Cupid's dame.
Mer . Why, was thy love so lovely, then?
oen .His beauty hight his shame;
The fairest shepherd on our green.
Mer . Is he a shepherd, than?
oen . And sometime kept a bleating flock:
Mer . Enough, this is the man.
Where wons he, then?
oen . About these woods, far from the poplar-tree.
Mer . What poplar mean ye?
oen . Witness of the vows 'twixt him and me.
And come and wend a little way, and you shall see his skill.
Mer . Sirs, tarry you.
oen . Nay, let them go.
Mer . Nay, not unless you will.
Stay, nymph, and hark [to] what I say of him thou blamest so,
And, credit me, I have a sad discourse to tell thee ere I go.
Know then, my pretty mops, that I hight Mercury,
The messenger of heaven, and hither fly,
To seize upon the man whom thou dost love,
To summon him before my father Jove,
To answer matter of great consequence:
And Jove himself will not be long from hence.
oen . Sweet Mercury, and have poor oenon's cries
For Paris' fault y-pierced th' unpartial skies?
Mer . The same is he, that jolly shepherd's swain.
oen . His flock do graze upon Aurora's plain,
The colour of his coat is lusty green;
That would these eyes of mine had never seen
His 'ticing curled hair, his front of ivory,
Then had not I, poor I, bin unhappy.
Mer . No marvel, wench, although we cannot find him,
When all too late the Queen of Heaven doth mind him.
But if thou wilt have physic for thy sore,
Mind him who list, remember thou him no more,
And find some other game, and get thee gone;
For here will lusty suitors come anon,
Too hot and lusty for thy dying vein,
Such as ne'er wont to make their suits in vain.
oen . I will go sit and pine under the poplar-tree,
And write my answer to his vow, that every eye may see.