Englands Helicon. Or The Muses harmony.

¶Amintas for his Phillis.

AVrora now began to rise againe, From watry couch, and from old Tithons side: In hope to kisse vpon Acteian plaine Young Cephalus, and through the golden glide On Easterne coast he cast so great a light, That Phaebus thought it time to make retire From Thetis bower, wherein he spent the night, To light the world againe with heauenly fire.

No sooner gan his winged Steedes to chase The Stigian night, mantled with duskie vale: But poore Amintas hasteth him a pace, In deserts thus, to weepe a wofull tale. You silent shades, and all that dwell therein, As birds, or beasts, or wormes that creepe on ground: Dispose your selues to teares, while I begin To rue the griefe of mine eternall wound.

And dolefull ghosts, whose nature flies the light, Come seate your selues with me on eu'ry side: And while I die for want of my delight,

Lament the woes through fancie me betide. Phillis is dead, the marke of my desire, My cause of loue, and shipwrack of my ioyes, Phillis is gone that set my heart on fire, That clad my thoughts with ruinous annoyes.

Phillis is fled, and bides I wote not where, Phillis (alas) the praise of woman-kinde: Phillis the Sunne of this our Hemisphere, Whose beames made me, and many others blinde. But blinded me (poore Swaine) aboue the rest, That like olde Oedipus I liue in thrall: Still feele the woorst, and neuer hope the best, My mirth in moane, and honey drown'd in gall.

Her faire, but cruell eyes, bewitcht my sight, Her sweet, but fading speech enthrall'd my thought: And in her deedes I reaped such delight, As brought both will and libertie to nought. Therefore all hope of happinesse adiew, Adiew desire, the source of all my care: Despaire tells me, my weale will nere renue, Till thus my soule doth passe in Charons Crare.

Meane time my minde must suffer Fortunes scorne, My thoughts still wound, like wounds that still are greene: My weakened limbs be layd on beds of thorne, My life decayes, although my death's fore-seene. Mine eyes, now eyes no more, but Seas of teares, Weepe on your fill, to coole my burning brest: Where loue did place desire, twixt hope and feares, (I say) desire, the Authour of vnrest.

And would to God, Phillis where ere thou be, Thy soule did see the sower of mine estate: My ioyes ecclips'd, for onely want of thee My being with my selfe at foule debate. My humble vowes, my sufferance of woe, My sobs and sighs, and euer-watching eyes: My plaintiue teares, my wandring to and fro, My will to die, my neuer-ceasing cries.

No doubt but then these sorrowes would perswade, The doome of death, to cut my vitall twist: That I with thee amidst th'infernall shade, And thou with me might sport vs as we list. Oh if thou waite on faire Proserpines traine, And hearest Orpheus neere th'Elizian springs: Entreate thy Queene to free thee thence againe, And let the Thracian guide thee with his strings.

FINIS.

Tho. Watson.