An Excellent Sonnet, Ballad
An Excellent Sonnet: OR, The Swaines complaint, whoſe cruell doome, It was to love hee knew not whom.
To the tune of, Bodkins Galiard.
YOu gentle Nimphs that on the Meddowes play, and oft relate the Loves of Shepheards young,
Come ſit you downe, if that you pleaſe to ſtay, now may you heare an uncouth paſſion Song:
A Lad there is, and I am that poore groome,
That's fal'n in love, and cannot tell with whom.
Oh doe not ſmile at ſorrow as a jeſt, with others cares good natures moved be:
And I ſhould wéepe if you had my unreſt, then at my griefe how can you merry be?
Ah, where is tender pitty now become?
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
I that have oft the rareſt features view'd, and beauty in her beſt perfection ſéene,
I that have laugh't at them that love purſu'd, and ever frée from ſuch perfections béene,
Loe now at laſt ſo cruell is my doome,
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
My heart is full nigh burſting with deſire, yet cannot tell from whence theſe longings flow,
My breſt doth burne, but ſhe that light the fire, I never ſaw, nor can I come to know:
So great a bliſſe my fortune kéepes me from,
That though I dearely love, I know not whom.
Ere I had twice foure Springs renewed ſéene, the force of beauty I began to probe,
And ere I nine yéeres old had fully beene, it taught me how to frame a ſound of love,
And little thought I this day ſhould have come,
Before that I to love had found out whom.
For on my chin the moſſy downe you ſée, and in my vaines well heated blood doth gloe,
Of Summers I have ſéene twice thrée times thrée, and faſt my youthfull time away doth goe:
That much I feare, I aged ſhall become,
And ſtill complaine, I love I know not whom.
Oh why had I a heart beſtow'd on me, to cheriſh deare affections ſo inclin'd,
Since I am ſo unh…ppy borne to be, no object for ſo true a love to find,
When I am dead it will be miſt of some,
Yet now I live, I love I know not whom.
I to a thouſand beauteous Nimphs am knowne, a hundred Ladies favours doe I ſweare,
I with as many halfe in love am growne, yet none of them I find can be my deare,
Me thinkes I have a Miſtreſſe yet to come,
Which makes me ſing, I love I know not whom.
The ſecond part,
To the ſame tune.
THere lives no ſwaine doth ſtronger paſſion probe for her, whom moſt he covets to poſſeſſe,
Then doth my heart that being full of love, knowes not to whom it may the ſame profeſſe,
For he that is deſpiſ…d hath ſorrow ſome,
But he hath more, that loves, & knowes not whom.
Knew I my Love, as many others doe, to some one object might my thoughts be bent,
So they divided, wandring ſhould not goe, untill the ſoules united force be ſpent,
As he that ſéekes, and never findes a home,
Such is my reſt, that love, and know not whom.
Thoſe whom the frownes of jealous friends divide, may live to méet and deſcant of their woe,
And he hath gain'd a Lady for his Bride, that durſt not wooe his Maide a while agoe:
But oh what ends unto my hopes can come,
That am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
Poore Collin grieves that he was late diſdain'd, and Clores doth for Willies abſence pine,
Sad Thirthes wéepes for his ſicke Phebe pain'd, but all their ſorrowes cannot equall mine,
A greater care on me, alas, is come,
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom.
Narciſſus-like did I affect my ſhade, ſome ſhadow yet I had to dote upon,
Or did I love ſome Image of the dead, whoſe ſubſtance had not breathed long agoe,
I might deſpaire, and ſo an end would come.
But oh I love, and cannot tell with whom.
Once in a dreame me thought my love I view'd, but never waking could her face behold,
And doubtleſſe that reſemblance was but ſhew'd, that more my tired heart torment it ſhould.
For ſince that time more griev'd I am become,
And more in love, I cannot tell with whom.
When on my bed at night to reſt I lye, my watchfull eyes with teares bedew my chéekes,
And then, oh would it once were day I cry, yet when it comes I am as farre to ſéeke,
For who can tell, though all the earth he rome,
Or when or where, to finde he knowes not whom.
Oh if ſhe be amongſt the beauteous traines, of all the Nimphs that haunt the ſeverall Kills,
Or if you know her Ladies of the plaines, or you that have your Bowers on the Hills,
Tell, if you can, who will my love become,
Or I ſhall die, and never know for whom.
Printed at London for I. Wright dwelling in Gilt-ſpurre ſtreet neere New-gate.
FINIS.
End of the text · George Wither, An Excellent Sonnet (1633)