Another of the same subject, but made as it were in answer

On a goodly summer's day,
Harpalus and Phyllida,
He a true-hearted swain,
She full of coy disdain.
Drove their flocks to field;

He to see his shepherdess.
She did dream on nothing less
Than his continual care,
Which to grim-faced Despair
Wholly did him yield.

Corin she affected still.
All the more thy heart to kill;
Thy case doth make me rue
That thou shouldst love so true,
And be thus disdain'd!

While their flocks a-feeding were,
They did meet together there;
Then with a curtsy low,
And sighs that told his woe,
Thus to her he plain'd:

' ' Bide awhile, fair Phyllida,
List what Harpalus will say
Only in love to thee;
Though thou respect not me,
Yet vouchsafe an ear

To prevent ensuing ill,
Which no doubt betide thee will;
If thou do not foresee
To shun it presently.
Then thy harm I fear.

Firm thy love is, well I wot,
To the man that loves thee not;
Lovely and gentle maid,
Thy hope is quite betray'd.
Which my heart doth grieve.

Corin is unkind to thee.
Though thou think contrary;
His love is grown as light,
As is his falcon's flight;
This, sweet nymph, believe.

Mopsus' daughter, that young maid,
Her bright eyes his heart hath stray'd
From his affecting thee;
Know there is none but she
That is Corin's bliss.

Phyllis men the virgin call;
She is buxom, fair, and tall.
Yet n(jt like Phyllida,—
If I my mind might say.
Eyes oft deem amiss.

He commends her beauty rare.
Which with thine may not compare;
He does extol her eye.
Silly thing, if thine were by:
Thus conceit can err.

He is ravish'd with her breath.
Thine can quicken life in death;
He praiseth all her parts.
Thine wins a world of hearts.
More if more there were.

Look, sweet nymph, upon thy flock,
They stand still, and now feed not.
As if they shared with thee
Grief for this injury
Offer'd to true love.

Pretty lambkins, how they moan,
And in bleating seem to groan.
That any shepherd swain
Should cause their mistress pain
By affects' remove.

If you look but on the grass,
It's not half so green as 'twas
When I began my tale,
But it is wither'd pale,
All in mere remorse.

Mark the trees that bragg'd even now
Of each goodly green-leaved bough.
They seem as blasted all,
Ready for winter's fall:
Such is true love's force.

The gentle murmur of, the springs
Are become contrary things;
They have forgot their pride.
And quite forsake their glide,
As if charm'd they stand.

And the flowers growing by,
Late so fresh in every eye;
See how they hang the head,
As on a sudden dead.
Dropping on the sand.

The birds that chanted it erewhile,
Ere they heard of Corin's guile,
Sit as they were afraid.
Or by some hap dismay'd,
For this wrong to thee.

Hark, sweet Phil, how Philomel,
That was wont to sing so well,
Jargles now in yonder bush,
Worser than the rudest thrush.
As it were not she. "

Phyllida, who all this while
Neither gave a sigh or smile,
Round about the field did gaze,
As her wits were in a maze.
Poor despis'd maid;

And revived at the last, ,
After streams of tears were past,
Leaning on her shepherd's hook.
With a sad and heavy look,
The poor soul she said:

"Harpalus, I thank not thee.
For this sorry tale to me;
Meet me here again to-morrow,
Then I will conclude ray sorrow,
Mildly, if may be."

With their flocks they home do fare,
Either's heart too full of care;
If they do meet again,
Then what they further sayn
You shall hear from me.