Close ×

Search EBBA

EBBA 36069

Manchester Central Library - Blackletter Ballads
Ballad XSLT Template
The Tragedy of Phillis, complaining of the disloyall
love of AMINTAS. To a new Court tune.

AMintas on a Summers day,
to shun Apollo's beames,
Was driving of his flocks away,
to taste some cooling streames:
And through a Forrest as he went,
hard by a Rivers side,
A voyce which from a Grove was sent
invited him to bide.

The voyce well seem'd for to bewray
some male-contented mind,
For oftimes did he heare it say,
ten thousand times unkind:
The remnant of that raging mone
did all escape his eare,
For every word brought forth a grone,
and every grone 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-flaking grones,
He heard her deadly discontents,
thus all breake forth at once.

Amintas, is my love to thee,
of such a light account,
That thou disdain'st to looke on me,
or love as thou wert wont?
Were those the oaths 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 Sun should first obscured be,
ere thou wouldst change thy thought?
Then heaven dissolve without delay,
Sun shew thy face no more,
Amintas love is lost for aye,
and woe is me therefore.

Well might I, if I had beene wise,
foreseene what now I find,
But too much love did fill mine eyes,
and made my judgement blind:
But ah, alas! th'effect doth prove,
thy drifts are 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 it's sweet:
Thine oaths and vowes did promise more
then well thou couldst performe,
Much like a calme that comes before
an unexpected storme.

God knowes it would grieve me much
for to be kil'd for thee,
But oh! too neere it doth me touch,
that thou shouldst murder me:
God knowes I care not for the paine
can come for losse of breath,
Tis thy unkindnesse cruell Swaine,
that grieves me to the death.

Amintas 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 that if I urged thee,
in loving thee too much.

But ah, alas! what doe I gaine,
by these my fond complaints?
My dolour doubles thy disdaine,
my griefe thy joy augments:
Although it yeeld no greater good,
it oft doth ease my mind,
For to reproach th'ingratitude
of him who is unkind.

With that her hand, cold, wan, and pale,
upon her brest she layes,
And seeing that her breath did faile,
she sighes and then she sayes;
Amintas, and with that poore Maid,
she sigh'd againe full sore,
That after that she never said,
nor sigh'd, nor breath'd no more.


View Raw XML