Marian, Mellifleur, Amie.
Mar. How do you, sweet Amie, yet?
Mel. She cannot tell,
If she could sleep, she says, she should do well.
She feels a hurt, but where, she cannot show
Any least sign, that she is hurt or no.
Her pain's not doubtful to her; but the seat
Of her pain is. Her thoughts too work, and beat,
Opprest with Cares: but why, she cannot say.
All matter of her care is quite away.
Mar. hath any Vermine broke into your Fold?
Or any Roz seiz'd on your Flock? or cold?
Or hath your feighting Ram burst his hard Horn?
Ar any Ewe her Fleece? or Bag hath torn,
My gentle Amie?
Am. Marian, none of these.
Mar. Ha' you been stung by Wasps, or angry Bees?
Or raz'd with some rude Bramble, or rough Briar?
Am. No, Marian; my Disease is somewhat nigher.
I weep, and boyl away my self in tears;
And then my panting Heart would dry those fears:
I burn, though all the Forest lend a shade;
And freeze, though the whole Wood on fire were
made.
Mar. Alas!
Am. I often have been torn with Thorn and Briar,
Both in the Leg, and Foot, and somewhat higher:
Yet gave not then such fearful shreiks as these. Ah!
I often have been stung too with curst Bees,
Yet not remember that I then did quit
Either my Company, or Mirth for it. Ah!
And therefore, what it is I feel now,
And know no cause of it, nor where, nor how,
It entred in me, nor least print can see,
I feel afflicts me more than Briar or Bee. Oh!
How often, when the Sun, Heavens brightest birth,
Hath with his burning, fervour cleft the Earth,
under a spreading Elm, or Oak, hard by
A cool clear Fountain, could I sleeping lie
Safe from the Heat? but now, no shady tree,
Nor purling Brook, can my refreshing be?
Oft when the Meadows were grown rough with Frost,
The Rivers Ice bound, and their Currents lost,
My thick warm Fleece I wore, was my defence,
Or large good Fires, I made, drave Winter thence.
But now, my whole Flocks fells, nor this thick grove,
Enflam'd to ashes, can my cold remove.
It is a cold, and heat, that doth out-go
All sense of Winters, and of Summers so.