Montemayor's Diana

Page 032

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Wherin all things were obiects of my Ioy?
Vntill the hungrie woolfe, which to the Hill
Ascending vp, was pleasant to mine Eies.
But fortune now, what may my drenched Eies
Behold, which saw their Shepherd many a Time
Driuing his lambes before him downe this Hill?
Whose name for ay shall rest within my Soule.
O fortune foe vnto my former Ioy,
How doe I languish in this irkesome Vale?
But when so pleasant and so fresh a Vale
Is not delightfull to my wearied Eies,
And where I cannot finde content and Ioy:
And hope not now to haue it any Time,
See what extremes enuiron then my Soule:
O that he came againe. O that sweete Hill:
O highest Hils, and fresh and pleasant Vale,
Where once my Soule did rest and both these Eies,
Tell me shall I in Time haue so much Ioy?

About this time Syluanus was with his flockes in a thicket of Mirtle trees neere to the fountaine, musing and imagining diuers things in his minde: but when he heard Seluagias voice, awaked as it were out of a slumber, he gaue attentiue eare to the verses, that she did sing. But as this Shepherd was cruelly intreated of loue, and contemned of Diana, so his passions made him wander a thousand times out of his wits, as that he now spake ill of loue, and by and by praised it, sometimes merrie, and other times more pensiue and sad, then the most sorrowfull man in the world, to day speaking ill of women, to morrow extolling them aboue all mortall creatures. And thus did this sorrowfull Shepherd leade a life, which as to all, so especially to those that are free from loue would be tedious and difficult to describe. But hauing heard Seluagias sweete verses, and obtained leaue of his sad thoughts, he tooke his Kit, and to the tune thereof began to sing that which followeth.

TO heare me wearied is the cleerest riuer,
Tedious I am to euery vale and mountaine:
And now to heare (O loue, my sorrowes giuer)
My plaining, wearied is each cristall fountaine.
The Sicamour, the Oke, and Elme are wearie,
Spring, Sommer, Autumne, and the winter season
Hearing my cries, are sworne not to be merry.
With teares I melt these rocks: and yet all reason
Of pitie (Tigresse) thou dost still deny me,
When trees, and stones for greefe are dying by me.

A bondslaue of a freeman thou hast made me,
And of a man of reason, cleane contrarie:
With life, and death, by turnes thou dost inuade me,
And to tormenting greefe my soule dost carrie.
Of affable, and one that liu’d so gayly,


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