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  • Title: The Passionate Pilgrim (Octavo, 1599)
  • Editor: Hardy M. Cook

    • ISBN: 978-1-55058-411-0

    Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Hardy M. Cook
    Not Peer Reviewed

    The Passionate Pilgrim (Octavo, 1599)

    IT was a Lordings daughter, the fairest one of three
    That liked of her maister, as well as well might be,
    Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eie could see,
    215 Her fancie fell a turning.
    Long was the combat doubtfull, that loue with loue did fight
    To leaue the maister louelesse, or kill the gallant knight,
    To put in practise either, alas it was a spite
    Vnto the silly damsell.
    220But one must be refused, more mickle was the paine,
    That nothing could be vsed, to turne them both to gaine,
    For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdaine,
    Alas she could not helpe it.
    Thus art with armes contending, was victor of the day,
    225Which by a gift of learning, did beare the maid away,
    Then lullaby the learned man hath got the Lady gay,
    For now my song is ended.
    ON a day (alacke the day)
    Loue whose month was euer May[.]
    230Spied a blossome passing fair,
    Playing in the wanton ayre,
    Through the veluet leaues the wind
    All vnseene gan passage find,
    That the louer (sicke to death)
    235Wisht himselfe the heauens breath,
    Ayre (quoth he) thy cheekes may blowe
    Ayre, would I might triumph so
    But (alas) my hand hath sworne,
    Nere to plucke thee from thy throne,
    240Vow (alacke) for youth vnmeet,
    Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet,
    Thou for whome Ioue would sweare,
    Iuno but an Ethiope were
    And deny hymselfe for Ioue
    245Turning mortall for thy Loue.
    MY flocks feede not, my Ewes breed not,
    My Rams speed not, all is amis:
    Loue is dying, Faithes defying,
    Harts nenying, causer of this.
    250All my merry Iigges are quite forgot,
    All my Ladies loue is lost (god wot)
    Where her faith was firmely fixt in loue,
    There a nay is plac't without remoue.
    One silly crosse, wrought all my losse,
    255 O frowning fortune cursed fickle dame,
    For now I see, inconstancy,
    More in wowen then in men remaine.
    In blacke morne I, all feares scorne I,
    Loue hath forlorne me, liuing in thrall:
    260Hart is bleeding, all helpe needing,
    O cruell speeding, fraughted with gall.
    My shepheards pipe can sound no deale,
    My weathers bell rings dolefull knell,
    My curtaile dogge that wont to haue plaid,
    265Plaies not at all but seemes afraid.
    With sighes so deepe, procures to weepe,
    In howling wise, to see my dolefull plight,
    How sighes resound through hartles ground
    Like a thousand vanquisht men in blodie fight.
    270Cleare wels spring not, sweete birds sing not,
    Greene plants bring not forth their die,
    Heards stands weeping, flocks all sleeping,
    Nimphes blacke peeping fearefully:
    All our pleasure knowne to vs poore swaines:
    275All our merrie meetings on the plaines,
    All our euening sport from vs is fled,
    All our loue is lost, for loue is dead,
    Farewell sweet loue thy like nere was,
    For a sweet content the cause all my woe,
    280 Poore Coridon must liue alone,
    Other helpe for him I see that there is none.
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