Song Of A Scholar And His Mistress, Who, Being Crossed By Their Friends, Fell Mad For One Another; And Now First Meet In Bedlam
[Music within.]
The Lovers enter at opposite doors, each held by a keeper.
Phillis.
Look, look I see—I see my love appear!
’Tis he—’Tis he alone;
For, like him, there is none:
’Tis the dear, dear man, ’tis thee, dear.
Amyntas.
Hark! the winds war;
The foamy waves roar;
I see a ship afar:
Tossing and tossing, and making to the shore:
But what’s that I view,
So radiant of hue,
St. Hermo, St Hermo, that sits upon the sails?
Ah! No, no, no.
St. Hermo never, never shone so bright;'
'Tis Phillis, only Phillis, can shoot so fair a light;
'Tis Phillis, ’tis Phillis, that saves the ship alone,
For all the winds are hush’d, and the storm is overblown.
Phillis.
Let me go, let me run, let me fly to his arms.
Amyntas.
If all the fates combine,
And all the furies join,
I’ll force my way to Phillis, and break through the charm.
[Here they break from their keepers, run to each other, and embrace.]
Phillis.
Shall I marry the man I love?
And shall I conclude my pains?
Now bless’d be the powers above,
I feel the blood bound in my veins;
With a lively leap it began to move,
And the vapours leave my brains.
Amyntas.
Body join’d to body, and heart join’d to heart,
To make sure of the cure,
Go call the man in black, to mumble o’er his part.
Phillis.
But suppose he should stay—
Amyntas.
At worst if he delay,
'Tis a work must be done,
We’ll borrow but a day,
And the better, the sooner begun.
[They run out together hand in hand.]
poem by John Dryden
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Related quotes
Phillis I
My Phillis hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her;
And Phillis hath morn-waking birds
Her risings still to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-feather'd flowers,
That smile when she treads on them;
And Phillis hath a gallant flock,
That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phillis hath too hard a heart,
Alas that she should have it!
It yields no mercy to desert,
Nor grace to those that crave it.
poem by Thomas Lodge
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Phillis 01
MY Phillis hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her;
And Phillis hath morn-waking birds
Her risings still to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-feather'd flowers,
That smile when she treads on them;
And Phillis hath a gallant flock,
That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phillis hath too hard a heart,
Alas that she should have it!
It yields no mercy to desert,
Nor grace to those that crave it.
poem by Thomas Lodge
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Phillis 1
MY Phillis hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her;
And Phillis hath morn-waking birds
Her risings still to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-feather'd flowers,
That smile when she treads on them;
And Phillis hath a gallant flock,
That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phillis hath too hard a heart,
Alas that she should have it!
It yields no mercy to desert,
Nor grace to those that crave it.
poem by Thomas Lodge
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To Phillis the Faire Sheeperdesse
My Phillis hath the morninge Sunne,
at first to looke upon her:
And Phillis hath morne-waking birds,
her risinge still to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-featherd flowres,
that smile when she treads on them:
And Phillis hath a gallant flocke,
that leapes since she dooth owne them.
But Phillis hath too hard a hart,
alas, that she should have it:
It yeelds no mercie to desert,
nor grace to those that crave it.
Sweete Sunne, when thou look'st on,
pray her regard my moane!
Sweete birds, when you sing to her,
to yeeld some pitty, woo her!
Sweet flowers that she treads on,
tell her, her beauty deads one.
And if in life her love she nill agree me,
Pray her before I die, she will come see me.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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Songs Set To Music: 18. Set By Mr. Smith
Since we your husband daily see
So jealous out of season,
Phillis, let you and I agree
To make him so with reason.
I'm vex'd to think that every night
A sot, within thy arms,
Tasting the most divine delight,
Should sully all your charms.
While, fretting, I must lie alone,
Cursing the powers divine,
That undeservedly have thrown
A pearl unto a swine.
Then, Phillis, heal my wounded heart,
My burning passion cool;
Let me at least in thee have part
With thy insipid fool.
Let him by night his joys pursue,
And blunder in the dark,
While I by day enjoying you,
Can see to hit the mark.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Coridon to his Phillis
Alas my hart, mine eye hath wrongèd thee,
Presumptious eye, to gaze on Phillis face:
Whose heavenly eye no mortall man may see
But he must die, or purchase Phillis grace.
Poor Coridon, the Nimph whose eye doth moove thee,
Dooth love to draw, but is not drawne to love thee.
Her beautie, Nature's pride, and sheepheards praise,
Her eye, the heavenly Planet of my life:
Her matchlesse wit and grace, her fame displaies,
As if that love had made her for his wife.
Onely, her eyes shoote fierie darts to kill,
Yet is her hart as cold as Caucase hill.
My wings too weake to flye against the Sunne,
Mine eyes unable to sustaine her light,
My hart doth yeeld that I am quite undone,
Thus hath faire Phillis slaine me with her sight.
My bud is blasted, withred is my leafe
And all my corne is rotted in the sheafe.
Phillis, the golden fetter of my minde,
My fancie's Idoll, and my vitall power:
Goddesse of Nimphs, and honour of thy kinde,
This Age's Phoenix, Beautie's richest bower.
Poore Coridon for love of thee must die:
Thy beautie's thrall and conquest of thine eye.
Leave Coridon to plough the barren field,
Thy buds of hope are blasted with disgrace:
For Phillis' lookes no harty love doo yeeld,
Nor can she love, for all her lovely face.
Die Coridon, the spoile of Phillis' eye:
She cannot love, and therefore thou must die.
Finis.
poem by Sir Edward Dyer
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The Beautiful Lady Of The May
I.
A quire of bright beauties in spring did appear,
To choose a May-lady to govern the year;
All the nymphs were in white, and the shepherds in green,
The garland was given, and Phillis was queen;
But Phillis refused it, and sighing did say,
I'll not wear a garland while Pan is away.
II.
While Pan and fair Syrinx are fled from our shore,
The Graces are banished, and Love is no more:
The soft god of pleasure that warmed our desires
Has broken his bow, and extinguished his fires,
And vows that himself and his mother will mourn,
Till Pan and fair Syrinx in triumph return.
III.
Forbear your addresses, and court us no more,
For we will perform what the Deity swore:
But, if you dare think of deserving our charms,
Away with your sheephooks, and take to your arms;
Then laurels and myrtles your brows shall adorn,
When Pan and his son and fair Syrinx return.
poem by John Dryden
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A Pastoral Ballad
Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay,
Whose flocks never carelessly roam;
Should Corydon's happen to stray,
Oh! call the poor wanderers home.
Allow me to muse and to sigh,
Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None once was so watchful as I;
I have left my dear Phillis behind.
Now I know what it is, to have strove
With the torture of doubt and desire;
What it is to admire and to love,
And to leave her we love and admire,
Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,
And the damps of each evening repel;
Alas! I am faint and forlorn:
-I have bade my dear Phillis farewell.
Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look,
I never once dreamed of my vine;
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
If I knew of a kid that was mine!
I priz'd every hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh;
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
But why do I languish in vain;
Why wander thus pensively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain,
Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favourite maid,
The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas! where with her I have stray'd,
I could wander with pleasure, alone.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forgo,
What anguish I felt at my heart!
Yet I thought-but it might not be so-
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.
She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew:
My path I could hardly discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.
The pilgrim that journeys all day
To visit some far distant shrine,
If he bear but a relique away,
Is happy, nor heard to repine.
Thus widely remov'd from the fair,
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe,
Soft hope is the relique I bear,
And my solace wherever I go.
poem by William Shenstone
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Songs Set To Music: 14. Set By Mr. Smith
Once I was unconfined and free,
Would I had been so still!
Enjoying sweetest liberty,
And roving at my will.
But now, not master of my heart,
Cupid does so decide,
That two she tyrants shall it part,
And so poor me divide.
Victoria's will I must obey,
She acts without control;
Phillis has such a taking way
She charms my very soul.
Deceived by Phillis' looks and smiles,
Into her snares I run;
Victoria shows me all her wiles,
Which yet I dare not shun.
From one I fancy every kiss
Has something in't divine,
And awful taste the balmy bliss
That joins her lips with mine.
But when with th' other I embrace,
Though she be not a queen,
Methinks 'tis sweet with such a lass
To tumble on the green.
Thus here you see a shared heart,
But I meanwhile the fool;
Each in it has an equal part,
But neither yet the whole.
Nor will it, if I right forecast,
To either wholly yield;
I find the time approaches fast
When both must quit the field.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Amarillis I Did Woo
Amarillis I did woo,
And I courted Phillis too;
Daphne, for her love, I chose;
Cloris, for that damask rose
In her cheek, I held as dear;
Yea, a thousand liked well near.
And, in love with all together,
Fearèd the enjoying either;
'Cause to be of one possest,
Barred the hope of all the rest.
poem by George Wither
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One Being Brought From Africa To America
'TWAS mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought now knew,
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
'Their colour is a diabolic die.'
Remember, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,
May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.
poem by Phillis Wheatley
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The Shepherd Piping To The Fishes
A Shepherd seeking with his Lass
To shun the Heat of Day;
Was seated on the shadow'd Grass,
Near which a flowing Stream did pass,
And Fish within it play.
The Phillis he an Angle gave,
And bid her toss the Line;
For sure, quoth he, each Fish must have,
Who do's not seek to be thy Slave,
A harder Heart than mine.
Assemble here you watry Race,
Transportedly he cries;
And if, when you behold her Face,
You e'er desire to quit the Place,
You see not with my Eyes.
But you, perhaps, are by the Ear,
More easie to be caught;
If so, I have my Bagpipe here,
The only Musick that's not dear,
Nor in great Cities bought.
So sprightly was the Tune he chose,
And often did repeat;
That Phillis, tho' not up she rose,
Kept time with every thrilling Close,
And jigg'd upon her Seat.
But not a Fish wou'd nearer draw,
No Harmony or Charms,
Their frozen Blood, it seems, cou'd thaw,
Nor all they heard, nor all they saw
Cou'd woo them to such Terms.
The angry Shepherd in a Pett,
Gives o'er his wheedling Arts,
And from his Shoulder throws the Net,
Resolv'd he wou'd a Supper get
By Force, if not by Parts.
Thus stated Laws are always best
To rule the vulgar Throng,
Who grow more Stubborn when Carest,
Or with soft Rhetorick addrest,
If taking Measures wrong.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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An Answer To The Rebus, By The Author Of These Poems
The poet asks, and Phillis can't refuse
To show th' obedience of the Infant muse.
She knows the Quail of most inviting taste
Fed Israel's army in the dreary waste;
And what's on Britain's royal standard borne,
But the tall, graceful, rampant Unicorn?
The Emerald with a vivid verdure glows
Among the gems which regal crowns compose;
Boston's a town, polite and debonair,
To which the beaux and beauteous nymphs repair,
Each Helen strikes the mind with sweet surprise,
While living lightning flashes from her eyes,
See young Euphorbus of the Dardan line
By Manelaus' hand to death resign:
The well known peer of popular applause
Is C----m zealous to support our laws.
Quebec now vanquish'd must obey,
She too much annual tribute pay
To Britain of immortal fame.
And add new glory to her name.
poem by Phillis Wheatley
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The Hint Fm French
How nicely fair Phillis you manage yr slave
You neither reproach nor approve him
Just keep him in play wth ye hopes wch you leave
Not give him enough that you'le love him
Tis tyrrany ruling in love wth such art
Own rather the cruellest meaning
If I cant have the pleasure to conquer yr heart
I shall have some at least in complaining
poem by Thomas Parnell
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On Being Brought from Africa to America
'Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
"Their colour is a diabolic die."
Remember, Christians, Negro's, black as Cain,
May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train.
poem by Phillis Wheatley
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When Cloris heard
When Cloris heard of her Amyntas dying,
She grieved then for her unkind denying:
Oft sighing sore, and with a heart unfeigned,
I die, I die, I die, she thus complained.
Whom, when Amyntas spied,
Then both for joy outcried,
I love, I love sweet Cloris’ eye,
And I Amyntas till I die.
poem by John Wilbye
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Part
Of something, separate, not
Whole; a role, something to play
While one is separate or parting;
Also a piece, a section, as in
Part of me is here, part of me
Is missing; an essential portion,
Something falling to someone
In division; a particular voice
Or instrument (also the score
For it), or line of music;
The line where the hair
Is parted. A verb: to break
Or suffer the breaking of,
Become detached,
Broken; to go from, leave,
Take from, sever, as in
Lord, part me from him,
I cannot bear to ever
poem by Phillis Levin
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Songs Set To Music: 7. Set By Mr. De Fesch
Phillis, this pious talk give o'er,
And modesty pretend no more,
It is too plain an art:
Surely you take me for a fool,
And would by this prove me so dull
As not to know your heart.
In vain you fancy to deceive;
For truly I can ne'er believe
But this is all a sham,
Since any one may plainly see
You'd only save yourself with me,
And with another damn.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Flora gave me fairest flowers
Flora gave me fairest flowers,
None so fair in Flora's treasure:
These I plac'd on Phillis' bowers,
She was pleas'd, and she my pleasure
Smiling meadows seem to say,
Come ye wantons, here to play.
poem by John Wilbye
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Corydon's Doleful Knell
My Phillida, adieu love!
For evermore farewel!
Ay me! I've lost my true love,
And thus I ring her knell,
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong,
My Phillida is dead!
I'll stick a branch of willow
At my fair Phillis' head.
For my fair Phillida
Our bridal bed was made;
But 'stead of silkes so gay,
She in her shroud is laid.
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.
Her corpse shall be attended
By maides in fair array,
Till the obsequies are ended,
And she is wrapt in clay.
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.
Her herse it shall be carried
By youths that do excell;
And when that she is buried,
I thus will ring her knell.
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.
A garland shall be framed
By art and natures skill,
Of sundry-colour'd flowers,
In token of good-will.
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.
And sundry-colour'd ribbands
On it I will bestow;
But chiefly black and yellowe
With her to grave shall go.
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.
I'll decke her tomb with flowers,
The rarest ever seen,
And with my tears, as showers,
I'll keepe them fresh and green.
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.
Instead of fairest colours,
Set forth with curious art,
Her image shall be painted
On my distressed heart.
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.
And thereon shall be graven,
Her epitaph so faire,
'Here lies the loveliest maiden,
That e'er gave shepheard care.'
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong.
In sable will I mourne;
Blacke shall be all my weede:
Ay me! I am forlorne
Now Phillida is dead!
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong,
My Phillida is dead!
I'll stick a branch of willow
At my fair Phillis' head.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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