My flocks feed not,

my ewes breed not,

My rams speed not,

all is amiss.

Love is dying,

faith’s defying,

Heart’s denying

causer of this.

All my merry jigs are quite forgot,

All my lady’s love is lost, God wot.

Where her faith was firmly fixed in love,

There a nay is placed without remove.

One seely cross

wrought all my loss —

O frowning fortune, cursed fickle dame!

For now I see

inconstancy

More in women than in men remain.

In black mourn I,

all fears scorn I,

Love hath forlorn me,

living in thrall.

Heart is bleeding,

all help needing —

O cruel speeding,

freighted with gall.

My shepherd’s pipe can sound no deal,

My wether’s bell rings doleful knell,

My curtal dog that wont to have played

Plays not at all, but seems afraid,

With sighs so deep

procures to weep

In howling wise to see my doleful plight.

How sighs resound

through heartless ground,

Like a thousand vanquished men in bloody fight!

Clear wells spring not,

sweet birds sing not,

Green plants bring not

forth their dye.

Herd stands weeping,

flocks all sleeping,

Nymphs back peeping

fearfully.

All our pleasure known to us poor swains,

All our merry meetings on the plains,

All our evening sport from us is fled,

All our love is lost, for love is dead.

Farewell, sweet lass,

thy like ne’er was

For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan.

Poor Corydon

must live alone,

Other help for him I see that there is none.