Sidor som bilder

His eyes were red, and all forwacht;

His face besprent with teares:
It seemed unhap had him long hatcht,

In middes of his dispaires.


His clothes were blacke, and also bare;

As onę forlorne was hee; Upon his head alwaies he ware

A wreathe of willowe tree.

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His beaftes he kept upon the hill,

And he fate in the dale;
And thus with fighes and sorrows fhrill,

He gan to tell his tale.


Oh Harpalus! thas would he fays

Unhappiest under funne!
The cause of thine unhappie day,

By love was first begunne.

For thou: wenest firft by fute to seeke

A tygre to make tame,
That settes hot by thy love a leeke;

But makes thy griefe her game.

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As easy it were for to converte

The frost into a flame;
As for to turne a frowarde herte,

Whom thou fo faine wouldet frame.



Corin Corin he liveth carelesse:

He leapes among the leaves :
He eates the fruites of thy redresse :

Thou reapest, he takes the fheaves.



My beaftes a while your foode refraine,

And harke your herdmans founde : Whom spitefull love, alas! hath flaine,

Through girt with many a wounde.

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The ewe she hath by her the ramme:

The yong cowe hath the bulle: The calfe with many a lufty lambe

Do feede their hunger full.


But, wel-a-way! that nature wrought

Thee, Phillida, fo faire :
For I may say that I have bought

Thy beauty all tò deare.



What reason is that cruelty

With beauty should have part?
Or els that such great tiranny

Should dwell in womans hart?


I se therefore to shape my deathe

She cruelly is preft;
To th’end that I may want my breathe :

My dayes ben at the best.

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o Cupide, graunt this my request,

And do not stoppe thine eares;
That sheë may feele within her brèfte

The paines of my dispaires :

of Corin (whoe' is careleffe,

That she may crave her fee :
As I have done in greate distresse,

That lovd her faithfullye.


But fince that I shal die her slave;

Her slave, and eke her thrall :
Write you, my friendes, upon my grave

This chaunce that is befall.

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“ Here lieth unhappy Harpalus

By cruell love now slaine : 66 Whom Phillida unjustly thus,

“ Hath murdred with disdaine." Vol. II.


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The palm of pastoral pcesy is here contested by a cotemporary writer with the author of the foregoing. The reader will decide their respective merits. The author of this poem has one advantage over his rival, in having his name handed down to us.

Mr. Robert HENRYSON (to whom we are indebted for it) appears to fo much advantage among the vwriters of eclogue, that we are sorry we can give no better account of him, than what is contained in the following eloge, writ by W. Dunbar, a Scottish poet, who lived about the middle of the 16th century :

In Dumferling, he [death] hath tane Broun,

With gude Mr. Robert. Henryfon." In Ramsey's EverGreen, Vol. 1. whence this distich, and the following beautiful poem are extracted, are preserved two other little Doric pieces, by Henryfon; the one intitled The LYON AND THE Mouse ; the other, The GARMENT OF GUDE LADY.IS.

Obin fat on the gude grene hill,

Keipand a flock of fie,
Quhen mirry Makyne said him till,

" O Robin rew on me.
I haif three luivt baith loud and still,

" Thir towmonds twa or thre:
“ My dule in dern but gif thou dill,
" Doubtless bot dreid I die."





Robin replied, Now by the rude,

Naithing of luve I knaw,
But keip my fheip undir yon wod :

Lo quhair they raik on raw.
Quhat can have mart thee ini thy mude,

Thou Makyne' to me fchaw;
Or quhat is luve, or to be lude ?

Fain wald I leir that law.



The law of luve gin thou wald leir,

“ Tak thair an A, B, C; “ Be keynd, courtas, and fair of feir,

Wyse, hardy, kind and frie, sé Sae that nae danger do the deir,

" What dule in dern thou drie; “ Press ay to pleis, and blyth appeir,

“ Be patient and privie."

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F 2

u, Robin,

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