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41 Ah! where were ye this while his shepheard peares,

To whom alive was nought so deare as hee; And ye faire Mayds, the matches of his yeares, 130 Which in his grace did boast you most to bee?

Ah! where were ye, when he of you had need,
To stop his wound that wondrously did bleed ?
Ah! wretched boy, the shape of 42 dreryhead,

And sad ensample of man's suddein end;
Full litle faileth but thou shalt be dead,

43 Unpitied, unplaynd, of foe or frend ! Whilest none is nigh, 44 thine eylids up to close, And kisse thy lips like faded leaves of rose.


A sort of shepheards sewing of the chace,

As they the forest raunged on a day, By fate or fortune came unto the place,

Where as the lucklesse boy yet bleeding lay; Yet bleeding lay, and yet would still have bled, Had not good hap those shepheards thether led.

They stopt his wound, (too late to stop it was!)

And in their armes then softly did him reare: 45 Tho (as he wild) unto his loved lasse,

His dearest love, him dolefully did beare. The dolefulst biere that ever man did see, 150 Was Astrophel, but dearest unto mee!


She, when she saw her Love in such a plight,

With crudled blood and filthie gore deformed, That wont to be with flowers and gyrlonds dight,

And her deare favours dearly well adorned; Her face, the fairest face that eye mote see, She likewise did deforme like him to bee.

Her yellow locks that shone so bright and long,

beames in fairest somers day, She fiersely tore, and with outragious wrong

From her red cheeks the roses rent away: And her faire brest, the threasury of ioy, She spoyld thereof, and filled with annoy.


His palled face, impictured with death,

She bathed oft with teares and dried oft :
And 47 with sweet kisses suckt the wasting breath

Out of his lips like lillies pale and soft.
And oft she cald to him, who answered nought,
But onely by his lookes did tell his thought.


The rest of her impatient regret,

And piteous mone the which she for him made, No toong can tell, nor any forth can set,

But he whose heart like sorrow did invade. At last when paine his vitall poures had spent, His wasted life her weary lodge 48 forwent.

Which when she saw, she staied not a whit,

But after him did make untimely haste : Forthwith her ghost out of her corps did flit,

And followed her make like 49 turtle chaste : To prove that death their hearts cannot divide, Which living were in love so firmly tide.


The gods, which all things see, this same beheld,

And, pittying this paire of lovers trew, Transformed them there lying on the field Into one

flowre that is both red and blew ; It first grows red, and then to blew doth fade, Like Astrophel, which thereinto was made.


And in the midst thereof a star appeares,

As fairly formd as any star in skyes : Resembling Stella in her freshest yeares, 190 Forth darting beames of beautie from her eyes:

And all the day it standeth full of deow,
Which is the teares, that from her eyes did flow.

That hearbe of some, Starlight is cald by name,

Of others Penthia, though not so well:
But thou, where ever thou doest finde the same,

From this day forth do call it Astrophel :
And, when so ever thou it up doest take,
Do pluck it softly for that shepheards sake.


Hereof when tydings far abroad did passe,

The shepheards all which loved him full deare, And sure full deare of all he loved was,

Did thether flock to see what they did heare. And when that pitteous spectacle they vewed, The same with bitter teares they all bedewed. And every one did make exceeding mone,

With inward anguish and great griefe opprest: And every one did weep and waile, and mone,

And meanes deviz'd to show his sorrow best. That from that houre, since first on grassie greene 210 Shepheards kept sheep, was not like mourning seen.

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Lycon. Colin, well fits thy sad cheare this sad

52 stownd,
This wofull stownd, wherein all things complaine
This great mishap, this greevous losse of owres.
Hear'st thou the 53 Orown ? how with hollow sownd
He slides away, and murmuring doth plaine,
And seemes to say unto the fading flowres,
Along his bankes, unto the bared trees:
54 Phillisides is dead! Up, iolly swaine,
Thou that with skill canst tune a doleful lay,
Help him to mourn. My hart with grief doth freese,
Hoarse is my voice with crying, else a part
Sure would I beare, though 55 rude : But as I may,
With sobs and sighes I second will thy song,
And so expresse the sorrowes of my hart.


Colin. Ah Lycon, Lycon, what need skill to teach
A grieved mynd powre forth his plaints ! how long
Hath the 56 pore turtle gon to school (weenest thou)
To learne to mourne her lost 57 make! No, no, each
Creature by nature can tell how to waile.
Seest not these flocks, how sad they wander now?
Seemeth their leaders bell their bleating tunes
In dolefull sound. Like him, not one doth faile
With hanging head to shew a heavie cheare.


What bird (I pray thee) hast thou seen, that 58 prunes
Himselfe of late? Did any cheerfull note
Come to thine eares, or gladsome sight appeare
Unto thine eies, since that same fatall howre?
Hath not the aire put on his mourning coat,

And testified his grief with flowing teares ?
30 Sith then, it seemeth each thing to his powre

Doth us invite to make a sad consort;
Come, let us ioyne our mournfull song with theirs.
Griefe will endite, and sorrow will enforce
Thy voice; and echo will our words report.

Lycon. Though my rude rymes ill with thy verses

That others farre excell; yet will I force
My selfe to answere thee the best I can,
And honor my base words with his high name.

But if my plaints annoy thee where thou sit 40 In secret shade or cave, vouchsafe (O 59 Pan)

To pardon me, and hear this 60 hard constraint
With patience, while I sing, and pittie it.
And eke ye rurall Muses, that do dwell
In these wilde woods, if ever piteous plaint
Ye did endite, or taught a wofull minde
With words of pure affect his griefe to tell,
Instruct me now. Now, Colin, then go on,
And I will follow thee, though farre behinde.

Colin sings. Phillisides is dead. 61 O harmfull death, 50 O deadly harme! Unhappy Albion,

When shalt thou see, emong thy shepheardes all
Any so sage, so perfect? Whom 62 uneath

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