Anonymous British

Corin's Fate

Corin, most unhappy swaine, Whither wilt thou drive thy flocke? Little foode is on the plaine; Full of danger is the rocke. Wolfes and beares doe kepe the woodes; Forests tangled are with brakes: Meadowes subject are to floodes; Moores are full of miry lakes. Yet to shun all plain and hill, Forest, moore, and meadow-ground, Hunger will as surely kill: How may then reliefe be found? Such is hapless Corins fate: Since my waywarde love begunne, Equall doubts begett debate What to seeke and what to shunne. Spare to speke, and spare to speed; Yet to speke will move disdaine: If I see her not I bleed, Yet her sight augments my paine. What may then poor Corin doe? Tell me, shepherdes, quicklye tell; For to linger thus in woe Is the lover's sharpest hell.