An uncouth love-song

You gentle Nymphs, that on these meadows play

And oft relate the loues of Shepherds young:

Come, sit you downe; for, if you please to stay,

Now may you heare an vncouth Passion sung.

A Lad there is, and I am that poore Groome;

That faln in loue, & cannot tell with whom.

Oh doe not smile at sorrow as a Iest;

With others cares good Natures mooued be:

And, I should weepe, if you had my vnrest.

Then, at my griefe, how, can you merry be?

Ah, where is tender pitie now become?

I am in loue, and cannot tell with whom.

I, that haue oft the rarest features viewd,

And Beautie in her best perfection seene:

I, that haue laught at them that Loue pursude

And euer free, from such affections beene.

Lo now at last, so cruell is my doome;

I am in loue, and cannot tell with whom.

My heart is full nigh bursting with desire,

Yet cannot find from whence these longings flow:

My brest doth burne, but she that lights the fire,

I neuer saw, nor can I come to know.

So great a blisse my fortune keepes my from.

That though I dearly loue; I know not whō.

Ere I had twice foure Springs, renewed seene,

The force of Beautie I began to proue;

And, ere I nine yeares old, had fully beene,

It taught me how to frame a Song of Loue.

And, little thought I, this day should haue come,

Before that I to loue, had found out whom.

For, on my Chinn, the mossy downe you see,

And, in my vaines, well-heated blood doth glow:

Of Summers I haue seene twice three times three,

And, fast, my youthfull time away doth goe.

That much I feare, I aged shall become:

And still complaine; I loue I know not whom.

Oh! why had I, a heart bestow'd on me,

To cherish deare affections, so enclind?

Since, I am so vnhappy borne to be

No Obiect, for so true a Loue to find.

When I am dead, it will be mist of some:

Yet, now I liue; I loue, I know not whom.

I, to a thousand beautious Nymphs am knowne;

A hundred Ladies fauours doe I weare:

I, with as many, halfe in loue am growne;

Yet none of them (I find) can be my Deare.

Me thinks, I haue a Mistresse, yet to come;

Which makes me sing; I loue I know not whom

There liues no Swaine doth stronger passion proue,

For her, whom most he couets to possesse;

Then doth my heart, that being full of Loue,

Knowes not to whom, it may the same professe.

For, he that is despisd, hath sorrow, some:

But he hath more; that loues, and knowes not whom

Knew I my Loue, as many others doe,

To some one obiect might my thoughts be bent:

So, they diuided should not wandring goe,

Vntill the Soules vnited force be spent.

As his, that seekes, and neuer finds a Home:

Such is my rest; that loue, & know not whom.

Those, whom the frownes of iealous friends diuide,

May liue to meet, and descant on their woe:

And he, hath gaind a Lady for his Bride,

That durst not woe her Mayd, a while agoe.

But oh! what end vnto my Hopes can come?

That am in loue, and cannot tel with whom.

Poore Collin, grieues that he was late disdaind:

And Cloris, doth for Willy's absence pine.

Sad Thirsis, weeps, for his sicke Phaebe paind.

But, all their sorrowes cannot equall mine.

A greater care alas, on me is come:

I am in loue, and cannot tell with whom.

Narcissus-like, did I affect my shade;

Some shaddow yet, I had, to dote vpon.

Or, did I loue, some Image of the dead,

Whose substance had not breathed long agone;

I might dispaire, and so an end would come;

But, oh, I loue! and cannot tell you whom.

Once in a Dreame, me thought, my Loue I view'd;

But, neuer waking, could her face behold:

And doubtles, that Resemblance was but shew'd,

That more, my tyred heart torment it should.

For, since that time, more grieu'd I am become;

And more in loue; I cannot tell with whom.

When on my bed at night, to rest I lye,

My watchfull eyes, with teares bedew my cheeke:

And then, oh would it once were day, I crie;

Yet when it comes, I am as far to seeke.

For, who can tell, though all the earth he rome;

Or when, or where, to find hee knowes not whom?

Oh! if she be among the beautious traines,

Of all you Nymphs, that haunt the siluer •ills;

Or, if you know her, Ladies of the Plaines,

Or you, that haue your Bowers, on the Hills.

Tell if you can, who will my loue become:

Or I shal die, and neuer know for whom.