’Till of his life it did full conquest win, First killing mirth, then banishing all rest, Filling his eyes with tears, with sighs his breast, Then sports grow pains, all talking tedious: On thoughts he feeds, his looks their figure change, The day seems long, but night is odious, No sleeps, but dreams; no dreams, but visions strange, ’Till finding still his evil increasing thus, One day he with his flock abroad did range: And coming where he hop’d to be alone, Thus on a hillock set, he made his moan: “Alas! what weights are these that load my heart! I am as dull as winter-starved sheep, Tir’d as a jade in over-laden cart, Yet thoughts do fly, though I can scarcely creep. All visions seem, at every bush I start: Drowsy am I, and yet can rarely sleep. Sure I bewitched am, it is even that, Late near a cross, I met an ugly cat. For, but by charms, how fall these things on me, That from those eyes, where heav’nly apples been, Those eyes, which nothing like themselves can see, Of fair Urania, fairer than a green, Proudly bedeck’d in April’s livery, A shot unheard gave me a wound unseen; He was invincible that hurt me so, And none invisible, but spirits can go. When I see her, my sinews shake for fear, And yet, dear soul, I know she hurteth none: Amid my flock with woe my voice I tear, And, but bewitch’d, who to his flock would moan? Her cherry lips, milk hands, and golden hair I still do see, though I be still alone. Now make me think that there is not a fiend, Who hid in angel’s shape my life would end. The sports wherein I wonted to do well, Come she, and sweet the air with open breast, Then so I fail, when most I would do well, That at my so amaz’d my fellows jest: Sometimes to her news of myself to tell I go about, but then is all my best Wry words, and stammering, or else doltish dumb; Say then, can this but of enchantment come? Nay each thing is bewitched to know my case: The Nightingales for woe their songs refrain: In river as I look’d my pining face, {119} As pin’d a face as mine I saw again, The courteous mountains griev’d at my disgrace Their snowy hair tear off in melting pain. And now the dropping trees do weep for me, And now fair evenings blush my shame to see. But you my pipe whilom my chief delight, ’Till strange delight, delight to nothing wear, And you my flock, care of my careful sight, While I was I, and so had cause to care: And thou my dog, whose truth and valiant might Made wolves, not inward wolves, my ewes to spare. Go you not from your master in his woe, Let it suffice that he himself forego. For though like wax this magic makes me waste, Or like a lamb, whose Dam away is set, (Stolen from her young by Thieves’ unchosing haste) He treble baa’s for help, but none can get, Though thus, and worse, though now I am at last, Of all the games that here ere now I met, Do you remember still you once were mine,