Amyntas go, thou art undone,
Thy faithful heart is cross'd by fate;
That love is better not begun,
Where love is come to love too late.

Had she professèd hidden fires,
Or show'd one knot that tied her heart,
I could have quench'd my first desires,
And we had only met to part.

But, tyrant, thus to murder men,
And shed a lover's harmless blood,
And burn him in those flames again,
Which he at first might have withstood.

Yet, who that saw fair Chloris weep
Such sacred dew, with such pure grace;
Durst think them feignèd tears, or seek
For treason in an angel's face.

This is her art, though this be true,
Men's joys are kill'd with griefs and fears,
Yet she, like flowers oppress'd with dew,
Doth thrive and flourish in her tears.


This, cruel, thou hast done, and thus
That face hath many servants slain,
Though th' end be not to ruin us,
But to seek glory by our pain.