Classic Poem

Amyntas on a summer day
To shun Apollo's beams
Was driving all his flocks away
To taste some cooling streams;
And through a forest as he went
Near to a river side,
A voice which from a grove was sent,
Invited him to bide.

The voice well seem'd for to bewray
Some malcontented mind,
For ofttimes did he hear it say
Ten thousand times " unkind; "
The remnant of that rugged moan
Did all escape his care,
For every word brought forth a groan,
And every groan a tear.

But nearer when he did repair,
Both voice and face he knew,
And saw that Phillis was come there
The plaints for to renew.
So leaving her to her complaint,
And murmuring rugged moans,
He heard her fully, discontent
Thus all burst forth at once.

" Amyntas, is my love to thee
Of such a small account?
That thou disdain'st to look on me,
Or love me as thou wont?
Were those the oaths that thou didst make,
The vows thou did conceive,
When I for thy contentment's sake
My heart's delight did leave.

" How oft did thou protest to me
The Heav'ns should turn to nought,
The sun should first obscured be
Ere thou should change thy thought?
Then heav'ns dissolve without delay,
Sun show thy face no more,
Amyntas' love is lost for aye,
And woe is me therefore.

" Well might I, if I had been wise,
Foreseen what now I find,
But too much love did seal mine eyes,
And made my judgment blind.
All thy behaviour was, God knows,
Too smooth and too discreet,
Like sugar which impoison'd grows
Unspiced, because it's sweet.

" Thy oaths and vows did promise more
Than well thou could'st perform,
Like to a calm which comes before
An unexpected storm.
God knows it would not grieve me much
For to be kill'd for thee;
But oh, how near it doth me touch,
That thou should'st murther me.

" God knows I care not, for no pain
Can come with loss of breath;
'Tis thy unkindness, cruel swain,
That grieves me to the death.
Amyntas, tell me, if thou may,
If any fault of mine
Hath gi'en thee cause thus to betray
My heart's delight and thine?

" No, no, alas, it could not be,
My love to thee was such,
Unless if that thou loathed me
For loving thee too much;
But oh, alas! what do I gain
By these my fond complaints?
My dolour doubles his disdain,
My grief his pride augments.

" Although it yield no greater good,
It oft doth ease my mind,
For to reproach th' ingratitude
Of him who is unkind. "
" With that her hand, cold, wan, and pale,
Upon her breast she laid,
And finding that her breath did fail,
She sigh'd and then she said,

" Amyntas, — " and with that, poor maid,
She sighed again so sore,
That after that she never said,
Nor sigh'd, nor breath'd no more.