Classic and Contemporary Poetry
HARPALUS' COMPLAINT ON PHILLIDAES LOVE BESTOWED ON CORIN, by ANONYMOUS First Line: Phyllida was a fair maid Last Line: Hath murdered with disdain Subject(s): Country Life | ||||||||
Phyllida was a fair maid, As fresh as any flower; Whom Harpalus the herdman prayed To be his paramour. Harpalus and eke Corin Were herdmen both yfere; And Phyllida would twist and spin And thereto sing full clear. But Phyllida was all too coy For Harpalus to win, For Corin was her only joy, Who forced her not a pin. How often would she flowers twine, How often garlands make Of cowslips and of columbine? And all for Corin's sake. But Corin, he had hawks to lure, And forcéd more the field; Of lovers' law he took no cure, For once he was beguiled. Harpalus prevailéd nought, His labour all was lost; For he was farthest from her thought, And yet he loved her most. Therefore waxed he both pale and lean, And dry as clod of clay; His flesh it was consuméd clean, His colour gone away. His beard it had not long be shave, His hair hung all unkempt; A man most fit e'en for the grave, Whom spiteful love had shent. His eyes were red and all forwatched, His face besprent with tears; It seemed unhap had him long hatched, In midst of his despairs. His clothes were black, and also bare; As one forlorn was he; Upon his head always he ware A wreath of willow tree. His beasts he kept upon the hill, And he sat in the dale; And thus with sighs and sorrows shrill He gan to tell his tale. Oh Harpalus! thus would he say, Unhappiest under sun, The cause of thine unhappy day By love was first begun. For thou went'st first by suit to seek A tiger to make tame, That sets not by thy love a leek, But makes thy grief her game. As easy 'twere for to convert The frost into the flame, As for to turn a froward heart Whom thou so fain wouldst frame. Corin he liveth carëless, He leaps among the leaves; He eats the fruits of thy redress; Thou reap'st, he takes the sheaves. My beasts a while your food refrain And hark your herdman's sound, Whom spiteful love alas! hath slain Through girt with many a wound. O happy be ye, beastës wild, That here your pasture takes, I see that ye be not beguiled Of these your faithful makes. The hart he feedeth by the hind; The buck hard by the doe; The turtle dove is not unkind To him that loves her so. The ewe she hath by her the ram; The young cow hath the bull; The calf with many a lusty lamb Do feed their hunger full. But well-away! that nature wrought Thee, Phyllida, so fair, For I may say that I have bought Thy beauty all too dear. What reason is that cruelty With beauty should have part? Or else that such great tyranny Should dwell in woman's heart? I see therefore to shape my death She cruelly is pressed, To th'end that I may want my breath; My days be at the best. O Cupid, grant this my request, And do not stop thine ears; That she may feel within her breast The pains of my despairs. Of Corin that is carëless That she may crave her fee, As I have done in great distress That loved her faithfully. But since that I shall die her slave, Her slave and eke her thrall, Write you, my friends, upon the grass This chance that is befall: "Here lieth unhappy Harpalus By cruel love now slain; Whom Phyllida unjustly thus Hath murdered with disdain." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TARIFF by GEORGE HENRY BOKER A DRIVE IN THE COUNTRY by TED KOOSER THERE IS ALWAYS A LITTLE WIND by TED KOOSER COUNTRYSIDE by JOSEPHINE MILES TIS A LITTLE JOURNEY by ANONYMOUS |
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