In apparitions makes my hopes aspire. 
    Methought I saw the nymph I would imbrace,
      With arms abroad coming to me for help,
      A lust-led satyr having her in chase
      Which after her about the fields did yelp. 
    I seeing my love in perplexed plight,
      A sturdy bat from off an oak I reft,
      And with the ravisher continue fight
      Till breathless I upon the earth him left. 
    Then when my coy nymph saw her breathless foe,
      With kisses kind she gratifies my pain,
      Protesting never rigour more to show. 
      Happy was I this good hap to obtain;
    But drowsy slumbers flying to their cell,
      My sudden joy converted was to bale;
      My wonted sorrows still with me do dwell. 
      I looked round about on hill and dale,
    But I could neither my fair Chloris view,
    Nor yet the satyr which erstwhile I slew.

    XIV

    Mournful Amintas, thou didst pine with care,
      Because the fates by their untimely doom
      Of life bereft thy loving Phillis fair,
      When thy love’s spring did first begin to bloom. 
    My care doth countervail that care of thine,
      And yet my Chloris draws her angry breath;
      My hopes still hoping hopeless now repine,
      For living she doth add to me but death. 
    Thy Phinis, dying, loved thee full dear;
      My Chloris, living, hates poor Corin’s love,
      Thus doth my woe as great as thine appear,
      Though sundry accents both our sorrows move. 
    Thy swan-like songs did show thy dying anguish;
    These weeping truce-men show I living languish.

    XV

    These weeping truce-men show I living languish,
      My woeful wailings tells my discontent;
      Yet Chloris nought esteemeth of mine anguish,
      My thrilling throbs her heart cannot relent. 
    My kids to hear the rimes and roundelays
      Which I on wasteful hills was wont to sing,
      Did more delight the lark in summer days,
      Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring. 
    But now my flock all drooping bleats and cries,
      Because my pipe, the author of their sport,
      All rent and torn and unrespected lies;
      Their lamentations do my cares consort. 
    They cease to feed and listen to the plaint
    Which I pour forth unto a cruel saint.

    XVI

    Which I pour forth unto a cruel saint,
      Who merciless my prayers doth attend,
      Who tiger-like doth pity my complaint,
      And never ear unto my woes will lend! 
    But still false hope dispairing life deludes,
      And tells my fancy I shall grace obtain;
      But Chloris fair my orisons concludes
      With fearful frowns, presagers of my pain. 
    Thus do I spend the weary wand’ring day,
      Oppressed with a chaos of heart’s grief;
      Thus I consume the obscure night away,
      Neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief;
    Thus do I pass my ling’ring life in woe;
    But when my bliss will come I do not know.