Harpalus' Complaint on Phyllida's Love bestowed on Corin, who loved her not and denied him that loved her

Phyllida was a fair maid,
As fresh as any flower.
Whom Harpalus the herdsman pray'd
To be his paramour.

Harpalus and eke Corin
Were herdsmen both yfere;
And Phyllida could 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 forced more the field;
Of lover's law he took no cure.
For once he' was beguiled.

Harpalus prevailed nought.
His labour all was lost;
For he was furthest from her thought,
And yet he loved her most.

Therefore wox he both pale and lean,
And dry as clod of clay;
His flesh it was consumed clean,
His colour gone away.

His beard it had not long been shave,
His hair hung all unkempt;
A man most fit even for the grave,
Whom spiteful love had spent.

His eyes were red, and all forewatch'd,
His face besprent with tears;
It seem'd unhap had him long hatch'd,
In midst of his despairs.

His clothes were black and also bare.
As one forlorn was he;
Upon his head he always 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.

O 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 a game.

As easy were it to convert
The frost into a flame,
As for to turn a froward heart
Whom thou so fain wouldst frame,

Corin, he liveth careless,
He leaps among the leaves,
He eats the fruit of thy redress;
Thou reap'st, he takes the sheaves.

My beasts, awhile your food refrain,
And hark your herdman's sound.
Whom spiteful Love, alas! hath slain,
Through-girt with many a wound.

Oh! happy be ye beasts 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't 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 prest;
To th' end that I may want my breath.
My days been at the best.

O Cupid! grant this my request.
And do not stop thine ears:
That she may feel within her breast
The pain of my despairs.

Of Corin that is careless,
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 my grave,
This chance that is befall:

Here lieth unhappy Harpalus,
By cruel love now slain.
Whom Phyllida unjustly thus.
Hath murder'd with disdain.