d thoughts are changed.

Lovely swain with lucky guiding,
Once (but now no more so friended)
Thou my flocks hast had in minding,
From the morn till day was ended.

Drink and fodder, food and folding,
Had my lambs and ewes together;
I with them was still beholding,
Both in warmth and winter weather.

Now they languish since refused,
Ewes and lambs are pained with pining;
I with ewes and lambs confused,
All unto our deaths declining.

Silence, leave thy cave obscured;
Deign a doleful swain to tender;
Though disdains I have endured,
Yet I am no deep offender.

Phillis' son can with his finger
Hide his scar, it is so little;
Little sin a day to linger,
Wise men wander in a tittle.

Thriftless yet my swain have turned,
Though my sun he never showeth:
Though I weep, I am not mourned;
Though I want, no pity groweth.

Yet for pity love my muses;
Gentle silence be their cover;
They must leave their wonted uses,
Since I leave to be a lover.

They shall live with thee inclosed,
I will loathe my pen and paper
Art shall never be supposed,
Sloth shall quench the watching taper.

Kiss them, silence, kiss them kindly
Though I leave them, yet I love them;
Though my wit have led them blindly,
Yet my swain did once approve them.

I will travel soils removed,
Night and morrow never merry;
Thou shalt harbour that I loved,
I will love that makes me weary.

If perchance the sheep estrayeth,
In thy walks and shades unhaunted,
Tell the teen my heart betrayeth,
How neglect my joys hath daunted.

XXI

Ye heralds of my heart, mine ardent groans,
O tears which gladly would burst out to brooks,
Oh spent on fruitless sand my surging moans,
Oh thoughts enthralled unto care-boding looks!
Ah just laments of my unjust distress,
Ah fond desires whom reason could not guide!
Oh hopes of love that intimate redress,
Yet prove the load-stars unto bad betide!
When will you cease? Or shall pain never-ceasing,
Seize oh my heart? Oh mollify your rage,
Lest your assaults with over-swift increasing,
Procure my death, or call on timeless age.
What if they do? They shall but feed the fire,
Which I have kindled by my fond desire.

XXII

Fair art thou, Phillis, ay, so fair, sweet maid