XVII
My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not,
My rams speed not, all is amis:
Love is dying, faith’s defying,
Heart’s denying, causer of this.
All my merry jigs are quite forgot,
All my lady’s love is lost, God wot:
Where her faith was firmely fix’d in love,
There a nay is plac’d without remove.
One silly cross wrought all my loss;
O frowning fortune, cursed fickle dame!
For now I see inconstancy
More in women than in men remain.
In black mourn I, all fears scorn I,
Love hath forlorn me, living in thrall.
Heart is bleeding, all help needing,
O cruel speeding, fraughted with gall.
My shepherd’s pipe can sound no deal.
My weather’s bell rings doleful knell;
My curtal dog that wont to have play’d,
Plays not at all, but seems afraid.
With sighs so deep procures to weep,
In howling wise, to see my doleful plight.
How sighs resound through heartless ground,
Like a thousand vanquish’d men in bloody fight!
Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not,
Green plants bring not forth their dye;
Herds stands weeping, flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs black peeping fearfully.
All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
All our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sport from us is fled,
All our love is lost, for love is dead.
Farewel, sweet love, thy like ne’er was
For a sweet content, the cause of all my woe!
Poor Corydon must live alone;
Other help for him I see that there is none.