Tixall Poetry.
141
And as shee pluckt them up, cries shee,
Alas! alas! none ere did love like mee.
Alas! alas! none ere did love like mee.
When she had fild her apron full
Of such green things as she could cull,
The green leaves serv'd her for her bed,
The flowers were pillowes for her head,
Then downe she lay, nere more did speake,
With love, alas! alas! her hart did breake.
Of such green things as she could cull,
The green leaves serv'd her for her bed,
The flowers were pillowes for her head,
Then downe she lay, nere more did speake,
With love, alas! alas! her hart did breake.
XXVII.
The Death of Amintas.
Adue to the pleasures and follies of love,
For a passion more noble my fancy doth move;
My sheapard is dead, and I live to proclaime,
In sorrowfull notes, my Amintas his name.
The wood-nimphs reply when they hear me complain,
For a passion more noble my fancy doth move;
My sheapard is dead, and I live to proclaime,
In sorrowfull notes, my Amintas his name.
The wood-nimphs reply when they hear me complain,
