By thee great Collin lost his libertie, By thee sweet Astrophel forwent his joy; By thee Amyntas wept incessantly, By thee good Rowland liv'd in great annoy; O cruell, peevish, vylde, blind-seeing boy, How canst thou hit their harts, and yet not see? If thou be blinde, as thou art faind to bee. A shepheard loves no ill, but onely thee; He hath no care, but onely by thy causing: Why doost thou shoot thy cruell shafts at mee? Give me some respite, some short time of pausing: Still my sweet love with bitter lucke th'art sawcing: Oh, if thou hast a minde to shew thy might, Kill mightie kings, and not a wretched wight. Yet, O enthraller of infranchizd harts, At my poore hart if thou wilt needs be ayming, Doo me this favour, show me both thy darts, That I may chuse the best for my harts mayming, A free consent is priviledgd from blaming. Then pierce his hard hart with thy golden arrow, That thou my wrong, that he may rue my sorrow. But let mee feele the force of thy lead pyle, What should I doo with love when I am old? I know not how to flatter, fawne, or smyle; Then stay thy hand, O cruell bowman, hold! For if thou strik'st me with thy dart of gold, I sweare to thee by Joves immortall curse, I have more in my hart than in my purse. The more I weepe, the more he bends his brow, For in my hart a golden shaft I finde. Cruell, unkinde, and wilt thou leave me so? Can no remorce nor pittie move thy minde? Is mercie in the heavens so hard to finde? Oh, then it is no mervaile that on earth Of kinde remorce there is so great a dearth. How happie were a harmles shepheards life, If he had never knowen what love did meane; But now fond Love in every place is rife, Staining the purest soule with spots uncleane, Making thicke purses thin, fat bodies leane. Love is a fiend, a fire, a heaven, a hell, Where pleasure, paine, and sad repentance dwell! There are so manie Danaes now a dayes, That love for lucre, paine for gaine is sold; No true affection can their fancie please, Except it be a Jove, to raine downe gold Into their laps, which they wyde open hold: If _legem pone_ comes, he is receav'd, When _Vix haud habeo_ is of hope bereav'd. Thus have I showed, in my countrey vaine, The sweet content that shepheards still injoy; The mickle pleasure and the little paine That ever doth awayte the shepheards boy: His hart is never troubled with annoy; He is a king, for he commands his sheepe; He knowes no woe, for he doth seldome weepe.