Close ×

Search EBBA

EBBA 30284

British Library - Roxburghe
Ballad XSLT Template
The Tragedie of Phillis, complaining of the disloyall
Love of Amyntas.
To a pleasant new Court Tune.

AMyntas on a Summers day,
to shunne Apollos beames,
Was driving of his flockes away,
to taste some cooling streames,
And through a Forrest as he went,
unto a river side,
A voice which from a grove was sent
invited him to bide.

The voyce well seemd for to bewray
some mal-contented minde:
For oft times did he heare it say,
Ten thousand times unkind,
The remnant of that raged mone,
did all escape his eare:
For every word brought forth a grone,
and every grone a teare.

And neerer when he did repaire,
both face and voyce he knew:
He saw that Phillis was come there,
her plaints for to renew.
Thus leaving her unto her plaints,
and sorrow-slaking grones:
He heard her deadly discontents,
thus all breake foorth at once.

Amyntas, is my love to thee,
of such a light account,
That thou disdainest to looke on me,
or love as thou wast wont:
Were those the oathes that thou didst make,
the vowes thou didst conceive,
When I for thy contentments sake,
mine hearts delight did leave:

How oft didst thou protest to me,
the heavens should turne to nought,
The Sunne should first obscured be,
ere thou wouldst change thy though?
Then Heaven, dissolve without delay,
Sunne shew thy face no more:
Amyntas love is lost for aye,
and woe is me therefore.

Well might I, if I had beene wise,
foreseene what now I finde:
But two much love did fill mine eyes,
and made my judgement blind:
But ah, alas: th effect doth prove,
thy drifts were but deceit,
For true and undissembled love,
will never turne to hate.

All thy behaviours were (God knowes)
too smooth and too discreet:
Like Sugar which impoysoned growes,
suspect because its sweet:
Thine oathes & vowes did promise more,
then well thou couldst performe,
Much like a calme that comes before
an unsuspected storme.

God knowes, it would not grieve me much,
for to be killd for thee:
But oh: too neere it doth me touch,
that thou shouldst murther me:
God knowes, I care not for the paine
can come for want of breath:
Tis thy unkindnesse cruell swaine,
that grieves me to the death.

Amyntas, tell me, if thou may,
if any fault of mine,
Hath given thee cause thus to betray
mine hearts delight and thine?
No, no, alas, it could not be,
my love to thee was such,
Unlesse if that I urged thee,
in loving thee to much.

But ah, alas, what doe I gaine,
by these my fond complaints?
My dolour double thy disdaine,
my griefe thy joy augments:
Although it yee[l]d no greater good,
it oft doth ease my mind:
For to reproach the ingratitude
of him who is unkind.

With that, her hand, cold, wan, and pale,
upon her brest she laies:
And seeing that her breath did faile,
she sighes, and then she sayes,
Amyntas, and with that, poore maid,
shee sighd againe full sore:
That after that she never said,
nor sighd, nor breathd no more.


FINIS.
Printed by the Assignes of
Thomas Symcocke.

View Raw XML