by George Wither (1588 - 1667)
You gentle Nymphs, that on these meadows...
Language: English
You gentle Nymphs, that on these meadows play And oft relate the loues of Shepherds young: Come, sit you downe; for, if you please to stay, Now may you heare an vncouth Passion sung. A Lad there is, and I am that poore Groome; That faln in loue, & cannot tell with whom. Oh doe not smile at sorrow as a Iest; With others cares good Natures mooued be: And, I should weepe, if you had my vnrest. Then, at my griefe, how, can you merry be? Ah, where is tender pitie now become? I am in loue, and cannot tell with whom. I, that haue oft the rarest features viewd, And Beautie in her best perfection seene: I, that haue laught at them that Loue pursude And euer free, from such affections beene. Lo now at last, so cruell is my doome; I am in loue, and cannot tell with whom. My heart is full nigh bursting with desire, Yet cannot find from whence these longings flow: My brest doth burne, but she that lights the fire, I neuer saw, nor can I come to know. So great a blisse my fortune keepes my from. That though I dearly loue; I know not whō. Ere I had twice foure Springs, renewed seene, The force of Beautie I began to proue; And, ere I nine yeares old, had fully beene, It taught me how to frame a Song of Loue. And, little thought I, this day should haue come, Before that I to loue, had found out whom. For, on my Chinn, the mossy downe you see, And, in my vaines, well-heated blood doth glow: Of Summers I haue seene twice three times three, And, fast, my youthfull time away doth goe. That much I feare, I aged shall become: And still complaine; I loue I know not whom. Oh! why had I, a heart bestow'd on me, To cherish deare affections, so enclind? Since, I am so vnhappy borne to be No Obiect, for so true a Loue to find. When I am dead, it will be mist of some: Yet, now I liue; I loue, I know not whom. I, to a thousand beautious Nymphs am knowne; A hundred Ladies fauours doe I weare: I, with as many, halfe in loue am growne; Yet none of them (I find) can be my Deare. Me thinks, I haue a Mistresse, yet to come; Which makes me sing; I loue I know not whom There liues no Swaine doth stronger passion proue, For her, whom most he couets to possesse; Then doth my heart, that being full of Loue, Knowes not to whom, it may the same professe. For, he that is despisd, hath sorrow, some: But he hath more; that loues, and knowes not whom Knew I my Loue, as many others doe, To some one obiect might my thoughts be bent: So, they diuided should not wandring goe, Vntill the Soules vnited force be spent. As his, that seekes, and neuer finds a Home: Such is my rest; that loue, & know not whom. Those, whom the frownes of iealous friends diuide, May liue to meet, and descant on their woe: And he, hath gaind a Lady for his Bride, That durst not woe her Mayd, a while agoe. But oh! what end vnto my Hopes can come? That am in loue, and cannot tel with whom. Poore Collin, grieues that he was late disdaind: And Cloris, doth for Willy's absence pine. Sad Thirsis, weeps, for his sicke Phaebe paind. But, all their sorrowes cannot equall mine. A greater care alas, on me is come: I am in loue, and cannot tell with whom. Narcissus-like, did I affect my shade; Some shaddow yet, I had, to dote vpon. Or, did I loue, some Image of the dead, Whose substance had not breathed long agone; I might dispaire, and so an end would come; But, oh, I loue! and cannot tell you whom. Once in a Dreame, me thought, my Loue I view'd; But, neuer waking, could her face behold: And doubtles, that Resemblance was but shew'd, That more, my tyred heart torment it should. For, since that time, more grieu'd I am become; And more in loue; I cannot tell with whom. When on my bed at night, to rest I lye, My watchfull eyes, with teares bedew my cheeke: And then, oh would it once were day, I crie; Yet when it comes, I am as far to seeke. For, who can tell, though all the earth he rome; Or when, or where, to find hee knowes not whom? Oh! if she be among the beautious traines, Of all you Nymphs, that haunt the siluer •ills; Or, if you know her, Ladies of the Plaines, Or you, that haue your Bowers, on the Hills. Tell if you can, who will my loue become: Or I shal die, and neuer know for whom.
About the headline (FAQ)
Confirmed with George Wither, Faire-virtue, the mistresse of Phil'arete, London: Printed [by Augustine Mathewes] for Iohn Grismand, M.DC.XXII. [1622]
Authorship:
- by George Wither (1588 - 1667), no title [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by (Henry) Walford Davies, Sir (1869 - 1941), "An uncouth love-song", op. 18 (Six Songs) no. 2, published 1905 [ voice and piano ], London : Sidney Riordan [sung text not yet checked]
Settings in other languages, adaptations, or excerpts:
- Also set in English, [adaptation] ; composed by Charles Hubert Hastings Parry, Sir.
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2022-01-08
Line count: 96
Word count: 825