Phylida was a fair maid
And fresh as any flower,
Whom Harpalus the herdman prayed
To be his paramour.
Harpalus and eke Corin
Were herdmen, both yfere;
And Phylida could twist and spin,
And thereto sing full clear.
But Phylida was all too coy
For Harpalus to win;
For Corin was her only joy,
Who forced her not a pin.
How often would she flowers twine,
How often garlands make,
Of cowslips and of columbine,
And all for Corin's sake!
But Corin, he had hawks to lure,
And forced more the field;
Of lovers' law he took no cure,
For once he was beguiled.
Harpalus prevailed nought;
His labour all was lost;
For he was farthest from her thoughts,
And yet he loved her most.
Therefore waxed he both pale and lean,
And dry as clot of clay;
His flesh it was consumed clean,
His colour gone away....
His beasts he kept upon the hill,
And he sate in the dale;
And thus, with sighs and sorrows shrill,
He gan to tell his tale.
"O Harpalus,"--thus would he say--
"Unhappiest under sun,
The cause of thine unhappy day
By love was first begun!...
O Cupid, grant this my request,
And do not stop thine ears,
That she may feel within her breast
The pains of my despairs!
Of Corin that is careless,
That she may crave her fee,
As I have done in great distress,
That loved her faithfully!" ...
Barnaby Googe (?).