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XI.

HARPALUS.

AN ANCIENT ENGLISH PASTORAL.

This beautiful poem, which is perhaps the first attempt at paftoral writing in our language, is preferved among the SONGS AND SONNETTES of the earl of Surrey, &c. 4to. 1574. in that part of the collection, which confifts of picces by UNCERTAIN AUCTOURS. Thefe poems were first publifhed in 1557, ten years after that accomplished nobleman fell a victim to the tyranny of Henry VIII: but it is prefumed most of them were compofed before the death of fir Thomas Wyatt in 1541. See Surrey's poems, 4to. fol. 19. 49.

Tho' written perhaps near half a century before the SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR *, this will be found far fuperior te any of thofe Eclogues in natural unaffected fentiments, in fimplicity of ftyle, in easy flow of verfification, and all the beauties of pastoral poetry. Spenfer ought to have profited more by fo excellent a model.

PHILLIDA

was a faire maide,

As fresh, as any flower;

Whom Harpalus the heard-man praide

To be his paramoure.

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But Phillida was al tò coye,
For Harpalus to winne :
For Corin was her only joye,
Who forft her not a pinne.

How often woold the flowers twine?
How often garlants make

Of couflips and of culumbine?

And al for Corin's fake.

But Corin, he had hawkes to lure,
And forced more the fielde:
Of lovers law he tooke no cure;
For once he was beguilde.

Harpalus prevayled nought,

His labour all was loft;

For he was fartheft from her thought,
And yet he loved her moft.

Therefore wax he both pale and leane,

And dry as clod of clay :

His fleshe it was confumed cleane;

His colour gone away.

His beard it had not long be fhave;

His heare hong al unkempt:

A man moft fit even for the grave,

Whom spiteful love had fhent.

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His

eyes were red, and all forwacht; His face befprent with teares:

It seemed unhap had him long hatcht,

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In middes of his dispaires.

His clothes were blacke, and also bare;

As one forlorne was hee;

Upon his head alwaies he ware

A wreathe of willowe tree.

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His beaftes he kept upon the hill,

And he fate in the dale;

And thus with fighes and forrows fhrill,
He gan to tell his tale.

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Corin he liveth carèleffe:

He leapes among the leaves:
He eates the fruites of thy redreffe :
Thou reapest, he takes the fheaves.

My beaftes a while your foode refraine,
And harke your herdmans founde:
Whom fpitefull love, alas! hath slaine,
Through girt with many a wounde.

O happie be ye, beaftès wilde,
That here your pafture takes:
I fee that ye be not beguilde
Of theese your faithful makes.

The hart he feedeth by the hinde :
The bucke harde by the doe:
The turtle dove is not unkinde

To him that loves her fo

The ewe she hath by her the ramme :
The yong cowe hath the bulle:

The calfe with many a lufty lambe

Do feede their hunger full.

But, wel-a-way! that nature wrought

Thee, Phillida, fo faire:

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For I may fay that I have bought

Thy beauty all tò deare.

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What

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I fe therefore to shape my deathe
She cruelly is preft;

To th' end that I may want my breathe:
My dayes ben at the best.

O Cupide, graunt this my request,
And do not stoppe thine eares;
That shee may feele within her breste
The paines of my dispaires :

Of Corin 'whoe' is carèleffe,

That she may crave her fee:

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As I have done in greate distresse,
That lovd her faithfullye.

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But fince that I fhal die her flave;
Her flave, and eke her thrall :
Write you, my friendes, upon my grave
This chaunce that is befall.

"Here lieth unhappy Harpalus

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By cruell love now flaine: "Whom Phillida unjustly thus,

"Hath murdred with difdaine."

VOL. II.

F

100

XII. ROBIN

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