Thirsis Egloga Secunda

Muses help me, sorrow swarmeth, Eyes are fraught with seas of languish; Heavy hope my solace harmeth, Mind's repast is bitter anguish.

Eye of day regarded never Certain trust in world untrusty; Flattering hope beguileth ever Weary, old, and wanton lusty.

Dawn of day beholds enthroned Fortune's darling, proud and dreadless; Darksome night doth hear him moaned, Who before was rich and needless.

Rob the sphere of lines united, Make a sudden void in nature; Force the day to be benighted, Reave the cause of time and creature;

Ere the world will cease to vary, This I weep for, this I sorrow. Muses, if you please to tarry, Further helps I mean to borrow.

Courted once by fortune's favour, Compassed now with envy's curses, All my thoughts of sorrow savour, Hopes run fleeting like the sources.

Ay me! Wanton scorn hath maimed All the joy my heart enjoyed; Thoughts their thinking have disclaimed, Hate my hopes hath quite annoyed.

Scant regard my weal hath scanted, Looking coy hath forced my lowering; Nothing liked where nothing wanted Weds mine eyes to ceaseless showering.

Former love was once admired, Present favour is estranged, Loath the pleasure long desired; Thus both men and thoughts are changed.

Lovely swain with lucky guiding, Once (but now no more so friended) Thou my flocks hast had in minding, From the morn till day was ended.

Drink and fodder, food and folding, Had my lambs and ewes together; I with them was still beholding, Both in warmth and winter weather.

Now they languish since refused, Ewes and lambs are pained with pining; I with ewes and lambs confused, All unto our deaths declining.

Silence, leave thy cave obscured; Deign a doleful swain to tender; Though disdains I have endured, Yet I am no deep offender.

Phillis' son can with his finger Hide his scar, it is so little; Little sin a day to linger, Wise men wander in a tittle.

Thriftless yet my swain have turned, Though my sun he never showeth: Though I weep, I am not mourned; Though I want, no pity groweth.

Yet for pity love my muses; Gentle silence be their cover; They must leave their wonted uses, Since I leave to be a lover.

They shall live with thee inclosed, I will loathe my pen and paper Art shall never be supposed, Sloth shall quench the watching taper.

Kiss them, silence, kiss them kindly Though I leave them, yet I love them; Though my wit have led them blindly, Yet my swain did once approve them.

I will travel soils removed, Night and morrow never merry; Thou shalt harbour that I loved, I will love that makes me weary.

If perchance the sheep estrayeth, In thy walks and shades unhaunted, Tell the teen my heart betrayeth, How neglect my joys hath daunted.