You woody hills, you dales, you groves,
You floods and every spring,
You creatures come, whom nothing moves,
And hear a shepherd sing:
For to heroes, nymphs, and swains
I long have made my moan;
Yet what my mournful verse contains
Is understood of none.

In song Apollo gave me skill,
Their love his sisters deigu;
With those that haunt Parnassus' hill
I friendship entertain.
Yet this is all in vain to me,
So haplessly I fare,
As those things which my glory be
My cause of ruin are.

For love hath kindled in my breast
His never-quenched fire,
And I, who often have expressed
What other men desire
(Because I could so dive into
The depth of others' moan),
Now I my own affliction show,
I heeded am of none.

Oft have the nymphs of greatest worth
Made suit my songs to hear,
As oft when I have sighed forth
Such notes as saddest were,
Alas! said they, poor gentle heart,
Whoe'er that shepherd be;
But none of them suspect my smart,
Nor think it meaneth me.

When I have reached so high a strain
Of passion in my song,
That they have seen the tears to rain
And trill my cheek along;
Instead of sigh, or weeping eye
To sympathise with me,
O were he once in love, they cry,
How moving would he be!

O pity me, ye powers above,
And take my skill away;
Or let my hearers think I love,
And feign not what I say.
For, if I could disclose the smart
Which I unknown do bear,
Each line would make them sighs impart,
And every word a tear.

Had I a mistress, some do think,
She should revealed be;
And I would favours wear, or drink
Her health upon my knee.
Alas, poor fools, they aim awry,
Their fancy flags too low,
Could they my love's rare course espy
They would amazed grow.

But let nor nymph nor swain conceive
My tongue shall ever tell
Who of this rest doth me bereave,
Or where I am not well:
But if you sighing me espy,
Where rarest features be,
Mark where I fix a weeping eye
And swear you, there is she.

Yet ere my eyes betray me shall,
I'll swell and burst with pain;
And for each drop they would let fall
My heart shall bleed me twain.
For since my soul more sorrow bears
Than common lovers know,
I scorn my passions should like theirs
A common humour show.

Ear never heard of heretofore
Of any love like mine;
Nor shall there be for evermore
Affection so divine.
And that to feign it none may try,
When I dissolved must be; —
The first I am it lived by,
And die it shall with me.