« VorigeDoorgaan »
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet,
My flocks feed not,
All is amiss:
Love is dying,
All my merry jigs are quite forgot,
Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love,
Wrought all my loss;
O frowning fortune, cursed, fickle dame! For now I see,
More in women than in men remain.
• Do not call it, &c.] This couplet is supplied from the song
as given in Love's Labour's Lost, act iv. sc. 3.
In black mourn I,
Living in thrall:
Heart is bleeding,
(O cruel speeding!)
My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal 6
Procures to weep,
In howling-wise, to see my doleful plight.
How sighs resound
Through heartless ground,
Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody
Clear wells spring not,
Sweet birds sing not,
no deal] i. e. in no degree. 7 With sighs so deep,
Procures, &c.] "The dog procures (i. e. manages matters) so as to weep." STEEVENS. The whole passage is probably corrupt. Shakespeare certainly wrote none of this wretched piece. Malone in his last edition printed it as given in Weelkes's Madrigals.
Flocks all sleeping,
All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
Thy like ne'er was
For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan: 9 Poor Coridon
Must live alone,
Other help for him I see that there is none
Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame,
lass] The reading in Weelkes's Madrigals: old copy, "love.
moan] The reading in England's Helicon: old copy, "woe."
10 smite] I have taken the liberty of altering the reading
of the old copy "strike" to 66 smite," "for the sake of the
fancy] i. e. love.
might] i. e. power.—Malone in his last edition adopted Steevens's conjecture "tike," to rhyme with "strike.”
And when thou com'st thy tale to tell,
But plainly say thou lov'st her well,
What though her frowning brows be bent,
And twice desire, ere it be day,
What though she strive to try her strength,
And to her will frame all thy ways;
The strongest castle, tower, and town,
Serve always with assured trust,
Unless thy lady prove unjust,
Press never thou to choose anew:
When time shall serve, be thou not slack
The wiles and guiles that women work,
Have you not heard it said full oft,
13 Think women still to strive with men,
But soft; enough,—too much I fear,
13 Think women, &c.] These four lines are scarcely intelligible in a MS. copy of the poem, belonging to S. Lysons, Esq. they stand thus:
"Think women love to match with men,
And not to live so like a saint:
Here is no heaven; they holy then