Englands
      H E L I C O N

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<1The Sheepheard to his chosen Nimph>1

  ONELY joy, now heere you are,
  Fit to heare and ease my care:
  Let my whispring voyce obtaine,
  Sweet reward for sharpest paine.
      Take me to thee, and thee to me,
      No, no, no, no, my Deere, let be.

  Night hath clos'd all in her cloke,
  Twinkling starres Love-thoughts provoke,
  Daunger hence good care dooth keepe,
  Jealousie it selfe dooth sleepe.
      Take me to thee, and thee to me:
      No, no, no, no, my Deere, let be.

  Better place no wit can finde,
  <1Cupids>1 yoake to loose or binde,
  These sweet flowers on fine bed too,
  Us in their best language woo,
      Take me to thee, and thee to me:
      No, no, no, no, my Deere, let be.

                       1

  This small light the Moone bestowes,
  Serves thy beames but to enclose,
  So to raise my hap more hie,
  Feare not else, none can us spie.
      Take me to thee, and thee to me:
      No, no, no, no, my Deare, let be.

  That you heard was but a Mouse,
  Dumbe sleepe holdeth all the house,
  Yet a-sleepe me thinks they say,
  Young folkes, take time while you may.
      Take me to thee, and thee to me:
      No, no, no, no, my Deere, let be.

  Niggard Time threats, if we misse
  This large offer of our blisse,
  Long stay, ere he graunt the same,
  (Sweet then) while each thing dooth frame,
      Take me to thee, and thee to me:
      No, no, no, no, my Deere, let be.

  Your faire Mother is a bed,
  Candles out, and Curtaines spred,
  She thinks you doo Letters write,
  Write, but let me first indite.
      Take me to thee, and thee to me,
      No, no, no, no, my Deere, let be.

  Sweete (alas) why saine you thus?
  Concord better fitteth us.
  Leave to <1Mars>1 the force of hands,
  Your power in your beauty stands.
      Take me to thee, and thee to me:
      No, no, no, no, my Deare, let be.

  Woe to me, and you doo sweare
  Me to hate, but I forebeare,

                          2

  Cursed be my destenies all,
  That brought me to so high a fall.
      Soone with my death I will please thee:
      No, no, no, no, my Deare, let be.

                              <1Sir Phil. Sidney>1



                 Theorello

          <1A Sheepheards Edillion>1

    You Sheepheards which on hillocks sit
      like Princes in their throanes:
    And guide your flocks, which else would flit,
      your flocks of little ones:
    Good Kings have not disdained it,
      but Sheepheards have beene named:
    A sheepe-hooke is a Scepter fit,
      for people well reclaimed.
The Sheepheards life so honour'd is and praised:
That Kings lesse happy seeme, though higher raised.

    The Sommer Sunne hath guilded faire,
      with morning rayes the mountaines:
    The birds doo caroll in the ayre,
      and naked Nimphs in Fountaines.
    The <1Silvanes>1 in their shagged haire,
      with <1Hamadriades>1 trace:
    The shadie <1Satires>1 make a Quiere,
      which rocks with Ecchoes grace.
All breathe delight, all solace in the season:
Not now to sing, were enemie to reason.

    <1Cosma>1 my Love, and more then so,
      the life of mine affections:

                   3

    Nor life alone, but Lady too,
      and Queene of their directions.
    <1Cosma>1 my Love, is faire you know,
      and which you Sheepheards know not:
    Is (<1Sophi>1 said) thence called so,
      but names her beauty showe not.
Yet hath the world no better name then she:
And then the world, no fairer thing can be.

    The Sunne upon her fore-head stands,
      (or jewell Sunne-like glorious,)
    Her fore-head wrought with <1Joves>1 owne hands,
      for heavenly white notorious.
    Her golden lockes like <1Hermus>1 sands,
      (or then bright <1Hermus>1 brighter:)
    A spangled Cauill binds in with bands,
      then silver morning lighter.
And if the Planets are the chiefe in skies:
No other starres then Planets are her eyes.

    Her cheeke, her lip, fresh cheeke, more fresh,
      then self-blowne buds of Roses:
    Rare lip, more red then those of flesh,
      which thousand sweetes encloses:
    Sweet breath, which all things dooth refresh,
      and words than breath farre sweeter:
    Cheeke firme, lip firme, not fraile nor nesh,
      as substance which is fleeter.
In praise doo not surmount, although in placing:
Her christall necke, round breast, and armes em-
        bracing.

    The thorough-shining ayre I weene,
      is not so perfect cleare:
    As is the skie of her faire skinne,
      whereon no spots appeare.
    The parts which ought not to be seene,
      for soveraigne woorth excell:

                    4

    Her thighs with Azure braunched beene,
      and all in her are well.
Long Ivorie hands, legges straighter then the Pine:
Well shapen feete, but vertue most divine.

    Nor cloathed like a Sheepheardesse,
      but rather like a Queene:
    Her mantle dooth the formes expresse,
      of all which may be seene.
    Roabe fitter for an Empresse,
      then for a Sheepheards love:
    Roabe fit alone for such a Lasse,
      as Emperours doth move.
Roabe which heavens Queene, the bride of her owne
        brother,
Would grace herselfe with, or with such another.

    Who ever (and who else but <1Jove>1)
      embroidered the same:
    Hee knew the world, and what did move,
      in all the mightie frame.
    So well (belike his skill to prove)
      the counterfeits he wrought:
    Of wood-Gods, and of every groave,
      and all which else was ought.
Is there a beast, a bird, a fish worth noate?
Then that he drew, and picturde in her coate.

    A vaile of Lawne like vapour thin
      unto her anckle trailes:
    Through which the shapes discernes bin,
      as too and fro it sailes.
    Shapes both of men, who never lin
      to search her wonders out:
    Of monsters and of Gods a kin,
      which her empale about.
A little world her flowing garment seemes:
And who but as a wonder thereof deemes?

  E.H.                    5                   B

    For heere and there appeare forth towers,
      among the chalkie downes:
    Citties among the Country bowers,
      which smiling Sun-shine crownes.
    Her mettall buskins deckt with flowers,
      as th'earth when frosts are gone:
    Besprinckled are with Orient showers
      of hayle and pebble stone.
Her feature peerelesse, peerelesse her attire,
I can but love her love, with zeale entire.

    O who can sing her beauties best,
      or that remaines unsung?
    Doe thou <1Apollo>1 tune the rest,
      unworthy is my tongue.
    To gaze on her, is to be blest,
      so wondrous fayre her face is;
    Her fairenes cannot be exprest,
      in Goddesses nor Graces.
I love my love, the goodly worke of Nature:
Admire her face, but more admire her stature.

    On thee, (o+ <1Cosma>1) will I gaze,
      and reade thy beauties ever:
    Delighting in the blessed maze,
      which can be ended never.
    For in the luster of the rayes,
      appeares thy parents brightnes:
    Who himselfe infinite displaies
      in thee his proper greatnes.
My song must end, but never my desire:
For <1Cosmas>1 face is <1Theorellos>1 fire.


                                                <1E.B.>1



                         6

           Astrophel's <1Love is dead>1

RING out your belles, let mourning shewes be spread,
           For Love is dead.
         All love is dead, infected
         With plague of deepe disdaine:
         Worth as nought worth rejected,
         And faith faire scorne doth gaine.
           From so ungratefull fancie,
           From such a femall frenzie,
           From them that use men thus:
             Good Lord deliver us.

Weepe neighbours weepe, doe you not heare it saide
           That Love is dead?
         His death-bed Peacocks follie,
         His winding sheete is shame:
         His will false, seeming holie,
         His sole exectour blame.
           From so ungratefull fancie,
           From such a female frenzie,
           From them that use men thus:
             Good Lord deliver us.

Let Dirge be sunge, and Trentals richly read,
           For Love is dead.
         And wrong his Tombe ordaineth,
         My Mistresse marble hart:
         Which Epitaph containeth,
         Her eyes were once his Dart.
           From so ungratefull fancie,
           From such a female frenzie,
           From them that use men thus:
             Good Lord deliver us.

Alas, I lye, rage hath this errour bred,
           Love is not dead.

                     7

         Love is not dead, but sleepeth
         In her unmatched minde:
         Where shee his counsell keepeth,
         Till due desert she find.
           Therefore from so vile fancie,
           To call such wit a frenzie,
           Who love can temper thus:
             Good Lord deliver us.


                                 <1Sir Phil. Sidney>1




                     <1A Palinode>1

As withereth the Primrose by the river,
As fadeth Sommers-summe from gliding fountaines;
As vanisheth the light blowne bubble ever,
As melteth snow upon the mossie Mountaines.
So melts, so vanisheth, so fades, so withers,
The Rose, the shine, the bubble and the snow,
Of praise, pompe, glorie, joy (which short life
      gathers,)
Faire praise, vaine pompe, sweet glory, brittle joy.
The withered Primrose by the mourning river,
The faded Sommers-sunne from weeping fountaines:
The light-browne bubble, vanished for ever,
The molten snow upon the naked mountaines,
    Are Emblems that the treasures we up-lay,
    Soone wither, vanish, fade, and melt away.

For as the snowe, whose lawne did over-spread
Th'ambitious hills, which Giant-like did threat
To pierce the heaven with theyr aspiring head,
Naked and bare doth leave their craggie seate.

                        8

When as the bubble, which did emptie flie
The daliance of the undiscerned winde:
On whose calme rowling waves it did relie,
Hath shipwrack made, where it did daliance finde:
And when the Sun-shine which dissolv'd the snow,
Cullourd the bubble with a pleasant varie,
And made the rathe and timely Primrose grow,
Swarth clowdes with-drawne (which longer time doe
      tarie)
    Oh what is praise, pompe, glory, joy, but so
    As shine by fountaines, bubbles, flowers or snow?

                                             <1E.B.>1



Astrophell <1the Sheep-heard, his complaint>1
                 <1to his flocke>1

  GOE my flocke, goe get yee hence,
     Seeke a better place of feeding:
  Where yee may have some defence
     From the stormes in my breast breeding,
     And showers from mine eyes proceeding.

  Leave a wretch, in whom all woe,
     can abide to keepe no measure:
  Merry Flocke, such one forgoe
     unto whom mirth is displeasure,
     onely ritch in mischiefes treasure.

  Yet (alas) before you goe,
     here your wofull Maisters Storie:
  Which to stones I else would showe,
     Sorrow onely then hath glorie:
     when tis excellently sorrie.

                   9

  <1Stella,>1 fiercest Sheepheardesse,
     fiercest, but yet fairest ever:
  <1Stella,>1 whom the heavens still blesse,
     though against me she persever,
     though I blisse, inherite never.

  <1Stella,>1 hath refused me,
     <1Stella,>1 who more love hath proved
  in this caitiffe hart to be,
     Then can in good by us be moved:
     Towards Lambkins best beloved.

  <1Stella,>1 hath refused me,
     <1Astrophell>1 that so well served,
  In this pleasant Spring must see,
     while in pride flowers be preserved:
     himselfe onely Winter-sterved.

  Why (alas) then dooth she sweare,
     that she loveth me so dearely:
  Seeing me so long to beare
     coales of love that burne so clearly:
     and yet leave me helplesse meerely?

  Is that love? Forsooth I trow,
     if I saw my good dogge greeved:
  And a helpe for him did know,
     my Love should not be beleeved:
     but he were by me releeved.

  No, she hates me, well away,
     faigning love, somewhat to please me:
  Knowing, if she should display
     all her hate, Death soone would seaze me:
     and of hideous torments ease me.

                       10
     Then my deare Flocke now adiew,
        but (alas) if in your straying,
     Heavenly <1Stella>1 meete with you,
        tell her in your pittious blaying:
        her poore slaves unjust decaying.
                                  <1S. Phil. Sidney>1
<1blaying]bleating>1


 Hobbinolls <1Dittie in prayse of>1 Eliza <1Queene>1
            <1of the Sheepheards>1

  YEE dainty Nimphs that in this blessed Brooke
             Doo bath your brest;
  Forsake your watry Bowers, and hether looke
             at my request.
  And you faire Virgins that on <1Parnasse>1 dwell,
  Whence floweth <1Helicon>1 the learned well:
            Helpe me to blaze
            Here worthy praise,
     Who in here sexe dooth all excell.

  Of faire <1Eliza>1 be your silver song,
            That blessed wight:
  The flower of Virgins, may she flourish long,
            In Princely plight:
  For shee is <1Sirinx>1 daughter, without spot,
  Which <1Pan>1 the Sheepheards God on her begot:
            So sprung her Grace,
            Of heavenly race:
     No mortall blemish may her blot.

  See where she sits upon the grassie greene,
            O seemely sight:
  Yclad in scarlet, like a mayden Queene,
            And Ermines white.
                     11

  Upon her head a crimson Coronet,
  With Daffadills and Damaske Roses set,
           Bay leaves betweene,
           And Primeroses greene:
     Embellish the sweet Violet.

  Tell me, have ye beheld her Angels face,
             Like <1Pha|ebe>1 faire?
  Her heavenly haviour, her Princely Grace,
             Can well compare.
  The red-Rose medled and the white yfere,
  In eyther cheeke depeincten lively cheere.
             Her modest eye,
             Her Majestie,
       Where have you seene the like but there?

  I saw <1Pha|ebus>1 thrust out his golden head,
             On her to gaze:
  But when he saw how broade her beames did
             spread:
           It did him maze.
  He blusht to see an other Sunne below,
  Ne durst againe his fierie face out-show:
           Let him if he dare
           His brightnes compare
     With hers, to have the overthrow.

  Shew thy self <1Cinthis>1 with thy silver rayes,
             And be not abasht,
  When she the beames of her beauty displayes,
           Oh how art thou dasht?
  But I will not match her with <1Latonaes>1 seede,
  Such folly great sorrow to <1Niobe>1 did breede,
           Now is she a stone,
           And makes deadly moane,
     Warning all other to take heede.
                      12

  <1Pan>1 may be proud, that ever he begot
           Such a Bellibone:
  And <1Sirinx>1 rejoyce, that ever was her lot
           To beare such a one.
  Soone as my Younglings cryen for the dam,
  To her will I offer a milke-white Lamb.
           Shee is my Goddesse plaine,
           And I her Sheepheards Swaine,
     Albe for-swonck and for-swat I am.
  I see <1Caliope>1 speede her to the place,
           Where my Goddesse shines:
  And after her the other Muses trace
           With their Violines.
  Bin they no Baie-braunches which they doo beare:
  All for <1Eliza>1 in her hand to weare?
           So sweetly they play,
           And sing all the way,
      That it a heaven is to heare.

  Loe how finely the <1Graces>1 can it foote,
           to the Instrument:
  They daucen deffely and singen soote
           In their merriment.
  Wants not a fourth <1Grace>1 to make the daunce even?
  Let that roome to my Lady be given.
           Shee shall be a <1Grace>1
           To fill the fourth place,
      And raigne with the rest in heaven.

  And whether runnes this bevie of Ladies bright,
           Ranged in a roe?
  They ben all Ladies of the Lake behight
           That unto her goe:
  <1Chloris>1, that is the chiefe Nimph of all,
  Of Olive-braunches beares a Coronall:
           Olives beene for peace
           When warres doo surcease,
     Such for a Princesse beene principall.
                      13

 Bring hether the Pinke and purple Cullumbine.
           With Gillyflowers
 Bring sweet Carnasions, and Sops in wine,
           Worne of Paramours.
 Strew me the ground with Daffa-down-Dillies,
 And Cowslops, and Kings-cups, and loved Lillies,
           The pretty Paunce,
           And the Chevisaunce,
     Shall match with the faire flower-Delice.

 Ye Sheepheards daughters that dwell on the greene,
           Hie you there a pace,
 Let none come there but such as Virgins beene,
           To adorne her Grace.
 And when you come where as she is in place:
 See that your rudenes doo not you disgrace.
           Bind your Fillets fast,
           And gird in your wast:
     For more finenesse with a Tawdrie lace.

 Now rise up <1Eliza>1, decked as thou art,
           In royall ray:
 And now ye dainty Damsels may depart,
           Each one her way.
 I feare I have troubled your troupes too long:
 Let dame <1Eliza>1 thanke you for her Song.
           And if you come hether,
           When Damzins I gather
     I will part them all, you among.
                                 <1Edm. Spencer>1
                     14

     <1The Sheepheards Daffadill>1

 <1GORBO>1, as thou cam'st this way
 By yonder little hill,
 Or as thou through the fields didst stray,
 Saw'st thou my <1Daffadill>1?

 Shee's in a frock of Lincolne greene,
 The colour Maydes delight,
 And never hath her Beauty seene
 But through a vayle of white.

 Then Roses richer to behold,
 That dresse up Lovers Bowers,
 The Pansie and the Marigold
 Are <1Pha|ebus>1 Paramoures.

 Thou well describ'st the <1Daffadill>1,
 It is not full an hower
 Since by the Spring neere yonder hill
 I saw that lovely flower.

 Yet with my flower thou didst not meete,
 Nor newes of her doest bring,
 Yet is my <1Daffadill>1 more sweete
 Then that by yonder Spring.

 I saw a Sheepheard that doth keepe
 In younder field of Lillies,
 Was making (as he fed his sheepe)
 A wreath of Daffadillies.
                     15

 Yet <1Gorbo:>1 thou delud'st me still,
 My flower thou didst not see.
 For know; my pretty <1Daffadill>1
 Is worne of none but mee.

 To shew it selfe but neere her seate
 No Lilly is so bold,
 Except to shade her from the heate,
 Or keepe her from the cold.

 Through yonder vale as I did passe
 Descending from the hill,
 I met a smerking Bonny-lasse,
 They call her <1Daffadill>1.

 Whose presence as a-long she went
 The pretty flowers did greete,
 As though their heads they downe-ward bent
 With homage to her feete.

 And all the Sheepheards that were nie,
 From top of every hill;
 Unto the Vallies loud did crie,
 There goes sweet <1Daffadill>1.

 I gentle Sheepheard now with joy
 Thou all my flock doest fill:
 Come goe with me thou Sheepheards boy,
 Let us to <1Daffadill>1.
                                 <1Michaell Drayton>1
                     16

   <1A Canzon Pastorall in honour of>1
            <1her Majestie>1
 ALAS what pleasure now the pleasant Spring
   Hath given place,
 To harsh black frosts the sad ground covering,
   Can wee poore wee embrace,
 When every bird on every branch can sing
   Naught but this note of woe alas?
 Alas this note of woe why should we sound?
 With us as May, September hath a prime,
 Then birds and branches your alas is fond,
 Which call upon the absent Sommer time:
        For did flowres make our May
        Or the Sun-beames your day,
 When Night and Winter did the world embrace,
 Well might you waile your ill and sing alas.

 Loe Matron-like the Earth her selfe attires
   In habite grave,
 Naked the fields are, bloomelesse are the brires,
   Yet we a Sommer have,
 Who in our clime kindleth these living fires,
   Which bloomes can on the briers save.
 No Ice dooth christallize the running Brooke,
 No blast deflowres the flowre-adorned field,
 Christall is cleere, but cleerer is the looke,
 Which to our climes these living fires dooth yield:
        Winter though every where
        Hath no abiding heere:
 On Brooks and Briers she doth rule alone,
 The Sunne which lights our world is alwayes one.
                                 <1Edmund Bolton>1
                     17

           Melicertus <1Madrigale>1

 WHAT are my Sheepe, without their wonted food?
 What is my life, except I gaine my Love?
 My Sheepe consume, and faint for want of blood,
 My life is lost unlesse I <1Grace>1 approve.
           Now flower that saplesse throves,
           No Turtle without pheare.

 The day without the Sunne doth lower for woe
 Then woe mine eyes, unlesse they beauty see:
 My Sonne <1Samelaes>1 eyes, by whom I know,
 Wherein delight consists, where pleasures be.
           Nought more the hart revives,
           Then to embrace his Deare.

 The starres from earthly humours gaine their light,
 Our humours by their light possesse their power:
<1Samelaes>1 eyes fed by my weeping sight,
 Infuse my paines or joyes, by smile or lower.
           So wends the source of love,
           It feedes, it failes, it ends.

 Kind lookes, cleare to your Joy, behold her eyes,
 Admire her hart, desire to tast her kisses:
 In them the heaven of joy and solace lyes,
 Without them, every hope his succour misses.
           Oh how I live to proove,
           Whereto this solace tends?
                                 <1Ro. Greene>1
                     18

        <1Old>1 Damons <1Pastorall>1

 FROM Fortunes frownes and change remov'd,
     wend silly Flocks in blessed feeding:
 None of <1Damon>1 more belov'd,
    feede gentle Lambs while I sit reading.

 Carelesse worldlings, outrage quelleth
    all the pride and pompe of Cittie:
 But true peace with Sheepheards dwelleth,
    (Sheepheards who delight in pittie.)
 Whether grave of heaven betideth,
    on our humble minds such pleasure:
 Perfect peace with Swaines abideth,
    love and faith is Sheepheards treasure.
 On the lower Plaines the thunder
    little thrives, and nought prevaileth:
 Yet in Citties breedeth wonder,
    and the highest hills assaileth.

 Envie of a forraigne Tyrant
    threatneth Kings, not Sheepheards humble:
 Age makes silly Swaines delirant,
    thirst of rule garres great men stumble.
 What to other seemeth sorrie,
    abject state and humble biding]
 Is our joy and Country glorie,
    highest states have worse betiding.
 Golden cups doo harbour poyson,
    and the greatest pompe, dissembling:
 Court of seasoned words hath foyson,
    Treason haunts in most assembling.

 Homely breasts doo harbour quiet,
    little feare, and mickle solace:
 States suspect their bed and diet,
    feare and craft doo haunt the Pallace.
                     19

 Little would I, little want I,
    where the mind and store agreeth,
 Smallest comfort is not scantie,
    least he longs that little seeth.
 Time hath beene that I have longed,
    foolish I, to like of follie:
 To converse where honour thronged,
    to my pleasures linked wholy.

 Now I see, and seeing sorrow
    that the day consum'd, returnes not:
 Who dare trust upon to morrow,
    when nor time, not life sojournes not?
                                 <1Thom. Lodge>1


 Perigot <1and>1 Cuddies <1Roundelay>1

 IT fell upon a holy-Eve,
    hey hoe holy-day:
 When holy-Fathers wont to shrive,
    now ginneth this Roundelay.
 Sitting upon a hill so hie,
    hey hoe the hie hill:
 The while my flocke did feede thereby,
    the while the Sheepheards self did spill.

 I saw the bouncing Bellybone,
    hey hoe Bonny-bell:
 Tripping over the Dale alone,
    shee can trip it very well.
 Well decked in a Frock of gray,
    hey hoe gray is greete:
 And in a Kirtle of greene Say,
    the greene is for Maydens meete.
                     20
A Chaplet on her head she wore,
   hey hoe the Chaplet:
Of sweet Violets therein was store,
   she's sweeter then the Violet.
My Sheepe did leave their wonted food,
   hey hoe silly Sheepe:
And gaz'd on her as they were wood,
   wood as he that did them keepe.

As the Bony-lasse passed by:
   hey hoe Bony-lasse:
Shee rold at me with glauncing eye,
   as cleare as the Christall-glasse.
All as the Sunnie-beame so bright,
   hey hoe the Sun-beame:
Glaunceth from <1Phoebus>1 face forth right,
   so love into my heart did streame.

Or as the thunder cleaves the clouds,
   hey hoe the thunder:
Wherein the lightsome levin shrouds,
   so cleaves my soule a-sunder.
Or as Dame <1Cinthias>1 silver ray,
   hey hoe the moone-light:
Upon the glistering wave doth play,
   such play is a piteous plight.

The glaunce into my hart did glide,
   hey hoe the glider:
There-with my soule was sharply gride,
   such wounds soone wexen wider.
Hasting to raunch the arrow out,
   hey hoe <1Perigot:>1
I left the head in my hart roote,
   it was a desperate shot.

                 21
There it rankleth aye more and more,
   hey hoe the arrow:
Ne can I finde salue for my sore,
   love is a curelesse sorrow.
And though my bale with death I bought,
   hey hoe heavie cheere:
Yet should thilke lasse not from my thought,
   so you may buy gold too deere.

But whether in painfull love I pine,
   hey hoe pinching paine:
Or thrive in wealth, she shall be mine,
   but if thou cn her obtaine.
And if for gracelesse greefe I dye
   hey hoe gracelesse greefe:
Witnesse, she slew me with her eye,
   let thy foly be the preefe.

And you that saw it, simple sheepe.
   hey hoe the faire flocke:
For priefe thereof my death shall weepe,
   and moane with many a mocke.
So learn'd I love on a holy-Eve,
   hey hoe holy-day:
That ever since my hart did greeve,
   now endeth our Roundelay.
                          <1Edm. Spencer>1
<1greete>1] obsolete form of <1great  Say>1] probably a
mixture of silk and wool
<1wood] distracted  levin]lightning  gride]pierced>1
<1hale]sorrow  preefe,priefe] proof>1

                          22
   Phillida <1and>1 Coridon

In the merry moneth of May,
In a morne by breake of day,
Foorth I walked by th Wood side,
When as May was in his pride:
There I spied all alone,
<1Phillida>1 and <1Coridon.>1
Much a-doo there was God wot,
He would love, and she would not.
She sayd never man was true,
He sayd, none was false to you.
He sayd, he had loved her long,
She sayd, Love should have no wrong.
<1Coridon>1 would kisse her then,
She said Maides must kisse no men,
Till they did for good and all.
Then she made the Sheepheard call
Al the heavens to witnesse truth:
Never lov'd a truer youth.
Thus with many a pretty oath,
Yea and nay, and faith and troth,
Such as silly Sheepheards use,
When they will not Love abuse;
Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweete concluded.
And <1Phillida>1 with garlands gay:
Was made the Lady of the May.
                             N.Breton

             23
          <1To>1 Colin Cloute

BEAUTIE sate bathing by a Spring,
        where fayrest shades did hide her.
  The winds blew calme, the birds did sing,
        the coole streames ranne beside her.
      My wanton thoughts entic'd mine eye,
        to see what was forbidden:
  But better Memory said, fie,
        so, vaine Desire was chidden.
        hey nonnie, nonnie, &c.

Into a slumber then I fell,
        when fond imagination:
Seemed to see, but could not tell
        her feature or her fashion.
  But even as Babes in dreames doo smile,
        and sometime fall a weeping:
  So I awakt, as wise this while,
        as when I fell a sleeping.
        hey nonnie, nonnie, &c.
                          <1Sheepheard Tonie>1


  Rowlands <1Song in praise of the fairest>1
                  Beta

O THOU silver Thames, o clearest christall flood,
<1Beta>1 alone the Phoenix is of all thy watry brood.
The Queene of Virgins onely she,
And thou the Queene of floods shalt be.
Let all the Nimphs be joyfull then, to see this happy
    day:
The <1Beta>1 now alone shall be the subject of my Lay.

                             24
With dainty and delightsome straines of sweetest
    Virelayes,
Come lovely Sheepheards sit we down, & chaunt our
    <1Betas>1 praise.
And let us sing so rare a verse,
Our <1Betas>1 praises to rehearse:
That little birds shall silent be, to heare poore Sheep-
    heards sing:
And Rivers backward bend their course, & flow unto
    the spring.

Range all thy Swannew faire Thames together on a
    ranke:
And place them duly one by one upon thy stately
    banke.
Then set together all a-good,
Recording to the silver flood:
And crave the tunefull Nightingale to helpe ye with
    her Lay;
The Osell and the Thrustlecocke, chiefe musique of
    our May.

O see what troupes of Nimphs been sporting on the
    strands,
And they been blessed Nimphs of peace, with Olives
    in their hands.
How merrily the Muses sing,
That all the flowrie meddowes ring,
And <1Beta>1 sits upon the banke in purple and in pall,
and she the Queene of Muses is, and weares the
    Coronall.

Trim up her golden tresses with <1Apollos>1 sacred tree,
O happy sight unto all those that love and honour
    thee,
The blessed Angels have prepar'd
A glorious crowne for thy reward,
Not such a golden crowne as haughty <1Caesar>1 weares:
But such a glittering starrie crowne as <1Ariadne>1 beares.

                           25
Make her a goodly Chaplet of azurd Cullumbine,
And wreath about her Coronet with sweetest
    Eglantine.
Bedeck our <1Beta>1 all with Lillies
And the dainty Daffadillies,
With Roses Damaske, white and red, and fairest
    flowre-Delice:
With Cwslips of Jerusalem, and Cloaves of
    Paradice.

O thou faire Torch of heaven, the days most dearest
    light,
And thou bright-shining <1Cinthia>1, the glory of the
    night.
You starres the eyes of heaven,
And thou the glyding leven,
And thou o gorgeous <1Iris,>1 with all strange colours
    dyed:
When she streames foorth her rayes, then dasht is all
    your pride.

See how the Day stands still, admiring of her face,
And Time loe stretcheth foorth his armes thy <1Beta>1 to
    embrace.
The Sirens sing sweete Layes,
The Trytons sound her prayse,
Goe passe on Thames, and hie thee fast unto the
    Ocean Sea:
And let thy billowes there proclaime thy <1Betas>1 holy-
    day.

And water thou the blessed roote of that greene Olive
    tree,
With whose sweete shadow all thy bancks with peace
    preserved be.
Laurell for Poets and Conquerours:
And Mirtle for Loves Paramours.

                        26
That fame may be thy fruite, the boughs preserved by
    peace,
And let the mournfull Cypres die, now stromes and
    tempests cease.

Weele strew the shoare with pearle, where <1Beta>1 walks
    a-lone,
And we will pave her Princely Bower with richest
    Indian stone.
Perfume the ayre, and make it sweete,
For such a Goddesse it is meete.
For if her eyes for purity contend with <1Titans>1 light:
No mervaile then, although they so doo dazell
    humaine sight.

Sound out your Trumpets then from Londons stately
    Towers,
To beate the stormie winds a-backe, and calme the
    raging showers.
Set to the Cornet and the Flute,
The Orpharion and the Lute:
And tune the Taber and the Pipe to the sweet
    Violons:
And moove the thunder in the ayre with lowdest
    Clarions.

<1Beta>1, long may thine Altars smoake with yeerely
    sacrifise,
And long thy sacred temples may their Sabaoths
    solemnise.
Thy Sheepheards watch by day and night,
Thy Maides attend the holy light,
And thy large Empire stretch her armes from East
    unto the West:
And <1Albion>1 on the <1Appenines>1 advaunce her
    Conquering crest.
                                   <1Mich. Drayton>1
<1Virelayes] a song or short lyric piece  Orpharion] a>1
<1large kind of lute>1

                             27
  <1The Barginet of>1 Antimachus

IN pride of youth, in midst of May,
When birds with many a merry Lay,
          salute the Sunnes up-rising:
I sate me downe fast by a Spring,
And while these merry Chaunters sing,
          I fell upon surmizing.
Amidst my doubt and minds debate,
Of change of time, of worlds estate,
          I spyed a boy attired
In silver plumes, yet naked quite,
Save pretty feathers fit for flight,
          Wherewith he still aspired.
A bowe he bare to worke mens wrack,
A little Quiver at his back,
          with many arrowes filled:
And in his soft and pretty hand,
He held a lively burning brand,
          where-with he lovers iklled.
Fast by his side, in rich aray,
There sate a lovely Lady gay,
          his mother as I guessed:
That set the Lad upon her knee,
And trimd his bowe, and taught him flee,
          And mickle Love professed.
Oft from her lap at sundry stoures,
He leapt, and gathered Sommer flowres,
           both Violets and Roses:
But see the chaunce that followed fast,
As he the pompe of prime dooth wast,
           before that he supposes:
A Bee that harbour'd hard thereby,
Did sting his hand, and made him crye
           Oh Mother, I am wounded:
Faire <1Venus>1 that beheld her Sonne,
Cryed out alas, I am undone,
          and there-upon she swounded.

                 28
My little Lad the Goddesse sayd,
Who hath my <1Cupid>1 so dismayd?
         he aunswered: Gentled Mother
The hony-worker in the Hive,
My greefe and mischiefe dooth contrive,
         alas it is none other.
Shee kist the Lad: now marke the chaunce,
And straite she fell into a traunce,
         and crying, thus concluded:
Ah wanton boy, like to the Bee,
Thou with a kisse hast wounded me,
         and haplesse Love included.
A little Bee dooth thee affright,
But ah, my wounds are full of spright,
         and cannot be recured:
The boy that kist his Mothers paine,
Gan smile, and kist her whole againe,
         and made her hope assured.
She suckt the wound, and swag'd the sting,
And little Love ycurde did sing,
         then let no Lover sorrow:
To day though greefe attaint his hart,
Let him with courage bide the smart,
         amends will come to morrow.
                             Thom. Lodge

<1Barginet] a rustic dance, accompanied by a song>1
<1stoures]>1 probably the word here means <1occasions>1
<1swag'd] assuaged>1

                           29
        Menaphons <1Roundelay>1

WHEN tender Ewes brought home with evenings
  Sun,
Wend to their Folds,
And to their holds
The Sheepheards trudge when light of day is done:
Upon a tree,
The Eagle <1Joves>1 faire bird did pearch,
There resteth hee.
A little Flie his harbour then did search,
And did presume, (though others laugh'd thereat)
To pearch whereas the Princely Eagle sat.

The Eagle frownd, and shooke his royall wings,
And charg'd the Flie
From thence to hie.
Afraide, in haste the little creature flings,
Yet seedes againe,
Fearfull to pearke him by the Eagles side.
With moodie vaine
The speedie poast of <1Ganimede>1 replide:
Vassaile avaunt, or with my wings you die.
Is't fit an Eagle seate him with a Flie?

The Flie crav'd pitty, still the Eagle frownd.
The silly Flie
Ready to die:
Disgrac'd, disgrac'd, fell groveling to the ground.
The Eagle sawe:
And with a royall mind said to the Flie,
Be not in awe,
I scorne by me the meanest creature die.
Then seate thee heere: The joyfull Flie up-flings,
And sate safe shadowed with the Eagles wings.
                                     <1Ro. Greene>1
<1pearke]>1 obsolete form of <1pearch>1
                                30
       <1A Pastorall of Phillis and Goridon>1

 On a hill there growes a flower,
  faire befall the dinity sweete:
 By that flower there is a Bower,
  where the heavenly Muses meete.

 In that Bower there is a chaire,
  frindged all about with gold:
 Where dooth sit the fairest faire,
  that ever eye did yet behold.

 It is <1Phillis>1 faire and bright,
  shee that is the Sheepheards joy:
 Shee that <1Venus>1 did depight,
  and did blind her little boy.

 This is she,the wise,the rich,
  That the world desires to see:
 This is <1ipsa quoe>1 the which,
  there is none but onely shee.

 Who would not this face admire?
  who would not this Saint adore?
 Who would not this sight desire,
  though he thought to see no more?

 Oh faire eyes,yet let me see,
  for one good looke,and I am gone:
 Looke on me,for I am hee,
  thy poore silly <1Coridon.>1

 Thou that art the Sheepheards Queene,
  looke upon thy silly Swaine:
 By thy comfort have beene seene
  dead men brought to life againe.
                     <1N.Breton>1

                         31

        <1Coridon and Melampus Song>1

 <1Cor.>1 MELAMPUS,when will love be void of feares?
 <1Mel.>1 When jelousie halth neither eyes nor eares.
 <1Cor.>1 <1Melampus>1 when will love be throughly
         shrived?
 <1Mel.>1 When it is hard to speake and not beleeved.
 <1Cor.>1 <1Melampus>1 when love love is most malecontent?
 <1Mel.>1 When Lover range, and beare their bowes un-
         bent.
 <1Cor.>1 <1Melampus>1 tell me, when love takes least
         harme?
 <1Mel.>1 when swaines sweet pipes are puft,and Trulls
         are warme.
 <1Cor.>1 <1Melampus>1 tell me when is love best fed?
 <1Mel.>1 When it hath suck'd the sweet that ease hath
         bred.
 <1Cor.>1 <1Melampus,>1 when is time in Love ill spent?
 <1Mel.>1 <when it earnes meede, and yet receaves no
         rent.

 <1Cor.>1 <1Melampus>1 when is time well spent in love ?
 <1Mel.>1 When deedes win meedes and words Loves
         work doo prove.
                                                 <1Geo.Peele>1
                 <1Tityrus to his faire Phillis>1

 THE silly swaine whose love brings discontent,
 Thinks death a trifle life a loathsome thing,
                 sad he lookes sad he lyes:
 But when his forturnes mallice dooth relent,
 Then of Loves sweetnes he will sweetly sing,
                 thus he lives thus he dyes.
 Then <1
 Then <1Tityrus>1 whom Love hath happy made,
 Will rest thrice happy in th mirtle shade.
                 For though love at frist did
                      greeve him:
                 yet did love at last releeve him.

                                             <1J.D.>1
               <1Sheepheard>1

                <1Sheepheard>1

 SWEETE thrall, frist step to Love felicitie.
                      <1Sheephaerdsse.>1
 Sweete thrall no stop to perfect libretie.
            <1Hee.>1 O what a life<1Shee>1 what a life?
 <1Hee>1 Sweete life <1Shee>1 no life more
            sweete:
 <1Hee>1O love.<1Shee>1What love?
 <1Hee>1 Sweete Love.<1Shee.>1No love more
            meete.

                                          <1J.M.>1

       <1Another of the same Authour>1

 FIELDS were over-speard with flowers,
 Fariest choice of florase tresure:
 Sheepheards there had shadie bowers
 Where they oft resposed with pleasure.
            Meadows flourish'd fresh and gay,
            where wonton Heards did play.

                  33
Spring more cleare then Christall streames,
Seated were the Groves among:
Thus nor <1Titans>1 scorching beames,
Nor earths drouth could Sheepheards wrong.
           Faire <1Pomonaes>1 fruitfull pride:
           did the budding braunches hide.

Flocks of sheepe fed on the Plaines,
Harmelesse sheepe that roamd at large:
Heere and there sate pensive Swaines,
Wayting on their wandring charge.
           Pensive while their Lasses smil'd:
           Lasses which had them beguil'd.

Hills with trees were richly dight,
Vallies stor'd with <1Vestaes>1 wealth:
Both did harbour sweet delight,
Nought was there to hinder health.
           Thus did heaven grace the soyle:
           Not deform'd with work-mens toile.

Purest plot of earthly mold,
Might that Land be justly named:
Art by Nature was controld,
Art which no such pleasures framed.
           Fayrer place was never seene:
           Fittest place for Beauties Queene.
                                      <1J.M.>1

                    34
               Menaphon <1to>1 Pesana

FAIRE fields proud <1Floraes>1 vaunt, why i'st you smile,
                               when as I languish?
You golden Meades, why strive you to beguile
                               my weeping anguish?
I live to sorrow, you to pleasure spring,
                               why doo ye spring thus?
What, will not <1Boreas>1 tempests wrathfull King,
                               take some pitty on us?
And send forth Winter in her rustie weede,
                               to waile my bemoanings:
While I distrest doo tune my Country Reede
                               unto my groanings.
But heaven and earth, time, place, and every power,
                               have with her conspired:
To turne my blisfull sweete to balefull sower,
                               since I fond desired
The heaven whereto my thoughts may not aspire,
                               aye me unhappie:
It was my fault t'imbrace my bane the fire
                               that forceth me die.
Mine be the paine, but hers the cruell cause,
                               of this strange torment:
Wherefore no time my banning prayers shall pause,
                               till proud she repent.
                                             <1Ro. Greene>1


             <1A sweete Pastorall>1

GOOD Muse rock me a sleepe,
          with some sweet Harmonie:
This wearie eye is not to keepe
          thy warie companie.
                    35
Sweete Love be gone a while,
          thou knowest my heavines:
Beauty is borne but to beguile,
          my hart of happines.

See how my little flocke
          that lov'd to feede on hie:
Doo headlong tumble downe the Rocke,
          and in the Vallie die.

The bushes and the trees
          that were so fresh and greene:
Doo all their dainty colour leese,
          and not a leafe is seene.

The Black-bird and the Thrush,
          that made the woods to ring:
With all the rest, are now at hush,
          and not a noate they sing.

Sweete <1Philomele>1 the bird,
          that hath the heavenly throate,
Dooth now alas not once affoord
          recording of a noate.

The flowers have had a frost,
          each hearbe hath lost her savour:
And <1Phillida>1 the faire hath lost,
          the comfort of her favour.

Now al these careful sights,
          so kill me in conceite:
That how to hope upon delights
          it is but meere deceite.

And therefore my sweete Muse
          that knowest what helpe is best,
Doo now thy heavenly cunning use,
          to set my hart at rest.
                    36
And in a dreame bewray
          what fate shall be my friend:
Whether my life shall still decay,
          or when my sorrow end.

                                <1N.Breton>1

Harpalus <1complaynt on>1 Phillidaes <1love be->1
<1stowed on>1 Corin, <1who loved her not, and>1
        <1denyed him that loved her>1

       PHILLIDA was a faire mayde,
           as fresh as any flower:
       Whom <1Harpalus>1 the Heards-man prayde
           to be his Paramour.
       <1Harpalus>1 and eke <1Corin,>1
           were Heard-men both yfere:
       And <1Phillida>1 could twist and spinne,
           and thereto sing full cleere.
       But <1Phillida>1 was all to coy,
           for <1Harpalus>1 to winne:
       For <1Corin>1 was her onely joy,
           who forc'd her not a pinne.
       How often would she flowers twine,
           how often garlands make:
       Of Cowslips and of Cullumbine,
           and all for <1Corins>1 sake?
       But <1Corin>1 he had Hawkes to lure,
           and forced more the field:
       Of Lovers law he tooke no cure,
           for once he was beguild.
       <1Harpalus>1 prevailed naught,
           his labour all was lost:

  E.H.                      37                    C
       For he was furthest from her thought,
          and yet he lov'd her most.
       Therefore woxe he both pale and leane,
          and drye as clod of clay:
       His flesh it was consumed cleane,
          his colour gone away.
       His beard it had not long beene shaue,
          his haire hung all unkempt:
       A man most fit even for the grave,
          whom spitefull Love had spent.
       His eyes were red and all fore-watcht,
           his face besprent with teares:
       It seem'd unhap had him long hatcht,
          in midst of his dispaires.
       His cloathes were blacke and also bare,
          as one forlorne was hee:
       Upon his head he alwayes ware
          a wreath of Willow-tree.
       His beasts he kept upon the hill,
          and he sate in the Dale:
       And thus with sighs and sorrowes shrill,
          he gan to tell his tale.
       Oh <1Harpalus,>1 thus would he say,
          unhappiest under Sunne:
       The cause of thine unhappy day,
          by love was first begun.
       For thou went'st first by sute to seeke,
          a Tyger to make tame:
       That sets not by thy love a Leeke,
          but makes thy greefe a game.
       As easie were it to convert
          the frost into a flame:
       As for to turne a froward hart
          whom thou so faine wouldst frame.
       <1Corin,>1 he liveth carelesse,
          he leapes among the leaves:
       He eates the fruites of thy redresse,
          thou reap'st, he takes the sheaves.
                         38
       My beasts a-while your food refraine,
          and harke your Heard-mans sound:
       Whom spightfull Love alas hath slaine,
          through-girt with many a wound.
       Oh happy be ye beasts wild,
          that heere your pasture takes:
       I see that ye be not beguild,
          of these your faithfull makes.
       The Hart he feedeth by the Hind,
          the Bucke hard by the Doe:
       The Turtle-Dove is not unkind
          to him that loves her so.
       The Ewe she hath by her the Ram,
          the young Cowe hath the Bull,
       The Calfe with many a lusty Lamb,
          doo feede their hunger full.
       But well-away that Nature wrought,
          thee <1Phillida>1 so faire:
       For I may say that I have bought
          thy beauty all too deare.
       What reason is't that cruelty
          with beauty should have part?
       Or else that such great tirannie,
          should dwell in womans hart?
       I see therefore to shape my death,
          she cruelly is prest:
       To th'end that I may want my breath,
          my dayes beene at the best.
       Oh <1Cupid>1 graunt this my request,
          and doo not stop thine eares:
       That she may feele within her brest,
          the paine of my despaires.
       Of <1Corin>1 that is carelesse,
          that she may crave her fee:
       As I have done in great distresse,
          that lov'd her faithfully.
       But since that I shall die her slave,
          her slave and eke her thrall:
                     39
       Write you my friends upon my grave,
          this chaunce that is befall.
       Heere lyeth unhappy <1Harpalus,>1
          by cruell Love now slaine:
       Whom <1Phillida>1 unjustly thus,
          hath murdered with disdaine.

                     <1L.T.Haward, Earle of Surrie.>1

<1Another of the same subject, but made as>1
           <1it were in aunswere>1

       ON a goodly Sommers day,
       <1Harpalus>1 and <1Phillida,>1
       He a true harted Swaine,
       Shee full of coy disdaine,
                   drove their flocks to field:
       He to see his Sheepheardesse,
       She did dreame on nothing lesse,
       That his continuall care,
       Which to grim-fac'd Dispaire,
                   wholely did him yeild.
       <1Corin>1 she affected still,
       All the more thy hart to kill.
       Thy case dooth make me true,
       That thou should'st love so true,
                   and be thus disdain'd:
       While their flocks a feeding were,
       They did meete together there.
       Then with a curtsie lowe,
       And sighs that told his woe,
                   thus to her he plain'd.

                       40
       Bide a while faire <1Phillida,>1
       List what <1Harpalus>1 will say
       Onely in love to thee,
       Though thou respect not mee,
                   yet vouchsafe an eare:
       To prevent ensuing ill,
       Which no doubt betide thee will,
       If thou doo not fore-see,
       To shunne it presentlie,
                   then thy harme I feare.
       Firme thy love is, well I wot,
       To the man that loves thee not.
       Lovely and gentle mayde,
       Thy hope is quite betradye,
                   which my hart doth greeve:
       <1Corin>1 is unkind to thee,
       Though thou thinke contrarie.
       His love is growne as light,
       As is his Faulcons flight,
                   this sweet Nimph beleeve.

       <1Morpsus>1 daughter, that young mayde,
       Her bright eyes his hart hath strayde
       From his affecting thee,
       Now there is none but shee
                   That is <1Corins>1 blisse:
       <1Phillis>1 men the Virgin call,
       She is Buxome, faire and tall,
       Yet not like <1Phillida:>1
       If I my mind might say,
                   eyes oft deeme amisse.
       He commends her beauty rare,
       Which with thine may not compare.
       He dooth extoll her eye,
       Silly thing, if thine were by,
                   thus conceite can erre:

                 41
       He is ravish'd with her breath,
       Thine can quicken life in death.
       He prayseth all her parts,
       Thine, winnes a world of harts,
                   more, if more there were.

       Looke sweet Nimph upon thy flock,
       They stand still, and now feede not,
       As if they shar'd with thee:
       Greefe for this injurie,
                   offred to true love.
       Pretty Lambkins, how they moane,
       And in bleating seeme to groane,
       That any Sheepheards Swaine,
       Shuld cause their Mistres paine:
                   by affects remove.
       If you looke but on the grasse,
       It's not halfe so greene as 'twas:
       When I began my tale,
       But is as witherd pale,
                   all in meere remorce.
       Marke the Trees that brag'd even now,
       Of each goodly greene-leav'd-bow,
       They seeme as blasted all,
       Ready for Winters fall,
                   such is true loves force.

       The gentle murmur of the Springs,
       Are become contrary things,
       They have forgot their pride,
       And quite forsake their glide,
                   as if charm'd they stand.
       And the flowers growing by,
       Late so fresh in every eye,
       See how they hang the head,
       As on a suddaine dead,
                   dropping on the sand.

                       42
       The birds that chaunted it yer-while,
       Ere they hear'd of <1Corins>1 guile,
       Sit as they were afraide,
       Or by some hap dismaide,
                   for this wrong to thee:
       Harke sweet <1Phil,>1 how <1Philomell,>1
       That was wont to sing so well,
       Jargles now in yonder bush,
       Worser that the rudest Thrush,
                   as it were not shee.

       <1Phillida,>1 who all this while
       Neither gave a sigh or smile:
       Round about the field did gaze,
       As her wits were in a maze,
                   poore despised mayd.
       And revived at the last,
       After streames of teares were past,
       Leaning on her Sheepheards hooke,
       With a sad and heavie looke,
                   thus poore soule she sayd.
       <1Harpalus,>1 I thanke not thee,
       For this sorry tale to mee.
       Meete me heere againe to morrow,
       Then I will conclude my sorrow
                   mildly, if may be:
       With their flocks they home doo fare,
       Eythers hart too full of care,
       If they doo meete againe,
       Then what they furder sayne,
                   you shall hear from me.

                                <1Shep. Tonie>1
          <1The Nimphes meeting their May Queene,>1
               <1entertaine her with this Dittie>1

 With fragrant flowers we strew the way,
 And make this our cheefe holy-day.
 For though this clime were blest of yore:
 Yet was it never proud before.
        O beauteous Queene of second Troy:
        Accept of our unfrayned joy.

 Now th'Ayre is sweeter than sweet Balme,
 And Satires daunce about the Palme,
 Now earth with verdure newly dight,
 Gives perfect signes of her delight.
        O beauteous Queene, &c.

 Now birds record new harmonie,
 And trees doo whistle melodie,
 Now every thing that Nature breedes.
 Dooth clad it salfe in pleasant weedes.
        O beauteous Queenes, &c.
                             <1Tho. Watson>1
<1proud]>1 this may be <1provd=prov'd, see>1 p. xxi
<1dight] clothed>1 or <1covered>1



  Colin Clutes <1mournfull Dittie for the death>1
                 <1of>1 Astrphell

 SHEEPHEARDS that wunt on pipes of Oaten reede,
Oft-times to plaine your loves concealed smart;
And with your pitteous Layes have learn'd to breede
 Compassions in a Country-Lasses hart:
 Harken ye gentle Sheepheard to my song,
 And place my dolefull plaint your plaints among.

 To you alone I sing this mournful verse,
 The mournfulst verse that ever man heard tell:
 To you whose softned harts it may empierse
 With dolours dart for death of <1Astrophell>1.
 To you I sing, and to none other wight:
 For well I wot, my rimes been rudely dight.

 Yet as they been, if any nicer wit
 Shall hap to heare, or covet them to reade:
 Thinke he, that such are for suchs ones most fit,
 Made not to please the living, but the dead.
 And if in found pitty ever place:
 Let him be moov'd to pitty such case.
                                 <1Edm. Spencer>1
<1dight] composed>1



      Damaetas <1Jigge in praise of his Love>!

 JOLLY Sheepheard, sheepheard on a hill
           on a hill so merrily,
           on a hill so cherily,
 Feare not Sheepheard there to pipe thy fill,
 Fill every Dale, fill every Plaine:
           both sing and say; Love feeles no paine.

 Jolly Sheepheard, sheepheard on a greene
           on a greene so merrily,
           on a greene so cherily,
 By thy voyce shrill, be thy mirth seene,
 Heard to each Swaine, seene to each Trull:
           both sing and say; Loves joy is full.
 Jolly Sheepheards in the sunne,
              in the sunne so merrily,
              in the sunne so cherily,
 Sing forth thy song, and let thy rimes runne
 Downe to the Dales, to the hills above:
              both sing and say; No life to love.

 Jolly  Sheepheard,Sheepheards in the shade ,
              in the shade so merrily,
              in the shade so cherily,
 Joy in thy life, life of a sheepheards trade,
Joy in thy love, love full of glee:
              both sing and say; sweet love for me,

 Jolly Sheepheards,Sheepheards heere or there,
              heere or there so merrily,
              herre or there so cherily,
 Or      in thy chat eyther at thy cheere,
 In every jigge in every Lay:
 both sing and say; Love least for aye.

 Jolly Sheepheard Sheepheards <1Daphnis>1 Love
              <1Daphnis>1 love so merrily,
              <1Daphnis>1 love so cherily,
 Let thy fanice never more remove,
 Fanice be fixt, fixt not to fleete,
              still sing and say;Loves yoake is sweete.

                                    <1John Wotton>1
   <1Montanus praise of his faire Phaebe>1
  <1PHAEBE sate>1
 Sweete she sate,
             sweete sate <1Phaebe>1 when I saw her,
                   46
 White her brow
 Coye her eye,
             brow and eye how much you please me?
 Words I spent
 Sighs I sent,
             sighs and words could never draw her,
 Oh my love,
 Thou art lost,
             since no sight could never ease thee.
<1Phaebe sate>1
 By a Fount,
             sitting by a fount I spide her,
 Sweete her touch,
 Rare her voice ,
  touch and voyce what my distaine you

 As she sung,
 I did sigh,
             and by sighs whilst that I tride her,

 Oh mine eyes,
 you did loose,
             her frist sight whose want did paine you.

<1Phaebe flocks>1
  White as wooll,
 yet where <1phaebe>1 lookes more whiter,
<1Phaebes eyes>1
 Dove-like mild,
             Dove-like eyes both mild and cruell,
<1montane sweares>1
 In your Lamp,
             he will die for to delight her,
<1Phaebe yeeld>1
 Or I die,
             shall to harts be fanice fuell?
                                 <1Thom.lodge>1
         <1The complaints of>1 Thestilis <1the forsaken>1
                         <1Sheepheard>1

 THESTILIS a silly Swaine, when Love did him forsake,
 In mournfull wise amid the woods,thus gan his plaint
     to make.
 Ah wofull man (quoth he) falne is thy lot to mone,
 And pine away with carefull thoughts,unto they Love
     unknowne.
 Thy Nimph forsake thee quite, whom thou didst
     honour so:
 That aye to her thou wert a friend, but to thyself a
     foe.
 Ye Lovers that have lost your harts_desires choyce:
 Lament with me cry cruell hap, and helpe my tremb-
     ling voyce.
 Was never man that stoode so great in Fortune grace,
 Nor with his sweate (alas too deere) posset so high a
     place:
 As I whose simple hart,aye thought himselfe still sure,
 But now I see springing tides, they may not aye
     endure.
 Shee knowes my guiltesse hart, and yet she lets it pine:
 of her untrue professed love, so feeble is the twine.
 What wonder is it then, if I berent my haires:
And craving death continually, doo bathe my selfe in
     teares?
 When <1Croesus>1 King of <1Lide>1, was cast in cruell bands,
 And yeelded goods and life into his enemies hands:
 What tongue could tell his woe? yet was his griefe
     much lesse
 Then mine, for I have lost my Love, which might my
     woe redresse.
 Ye woods that shroud my limbs, give now your hollow
     sound:
 That ye may help me to bewaile, the cares that me
     confound.
 Ye Rivers rest a while, and stay your streames that
     runne:
 Rue <1Thestillis>1, the wofulst man that rest under the
     Sunne.
 Transport my sights ye winds, unto my pleasant foe:
 My trickling teares shall witnes beare, of this my cruell
     woe.
 Oh happy man were I, if all the Gods agreed:
 That now the Sisters three should cut in twaine my
     fatall thread.
 Till life with love shall end, I heere resigne all joy,
 Thy pleasants sweete I now lament, whose lacke breeds
     mine annoy.
 Farewell my deere therefore, farewell to me well
     knowne,
 If that I die, it shall be sayd: that thou hast slaine thine
     owne.
                                 <1L.T. Howard,E.of Surrie>1
<1berent] tear>1


            <1To>1 Phillis <1the faire Sheepheardess>1

 My <1Phillis>1 hath the morning Sunne,
  at first to Looke upon her:
 And <1Phillis>1 hath morne-waking birds,
  her risings still to honour.
 My <1Phillis>1 hath prime-feathered flowers,
  that smile when she treads on them:
 And <1Phillis>1 hath a gallant flocke,
  that leapes since she dooth owne them.
 But <1Phillis>1 hath too hard a hart,
  alas that she should have it:
 It yeelds no mercie to desert,
                    nor grace to those that crave it.

            <1The Sheepheards Doronsjigge>1

 THROUGH the shrubs as I can crack,
       for my lambs pretty ones,
       mongst many little ones,
 Nimphis I meane, whose haire was black
                    As a Crow.
                    Like as the
                    Like as the Snow
Her face and browes shin'd I weene,
       I saw a little one,
       a bonny pretty one,
 as bright, buxome, and as sheene:
                    As was shee
                    On her knee
 That lull'd the God,whose arrowes warmes
       such merry little ones,
       such faire-fac'd pretty ones,
 As daily in Loves chiefest harmes.
                    Such was mine,
                    whose gray eyne
 Made me love: Igan to wooe
       this sweete little one,
       this bonny pretty one.
               50
 I wooed hard day or two,
                    Till she bad,
                    Be not sad,
 Wooe no more,I am thine owne,
       thy dearest little one,
       thy truest pretty one.
 Thus was faith and firme love showne,
                    As behooves
                    Sheepheards loves.

                                     <1RO.Greene>1
   <1Astrophell his song of Phillida & Coridon>1
 FAIRE in morne,(o fairest morne)
        was never morne so farie:
 There shone a sunne,though the sunne,
        that shineth in the ayre.
 For the earth,and from the earth,
        (was never such a creature:)
 Did come this face, (was never face,)
        that carried such a feature.
 Upon a hill,(o blessed hill,
        was never hill so blesses)
 There stoode a man,(was never man
        for woman so distressed.)
 This man beheled a haevbenly veiw,
        which did such vertue give:
 As cleares thee blind,and helps the lame,
        and makes the dead man live.
 This man had hap,(o happy man
        more happy none than hee;)
 For he had hap to see the hap,
        that none had hap to see.
              51
This silly Swaine, (and silly Swaines
            are men of meanest grace:)
Had yet the grace, (o gracious guest)
            to hap on such a face.
He pitty cryed, and pitty came,
            and pittied so his paine:
As dying, would not let him die,
            but gave him life againe.
For joy whereof he made such mirth,
            as all the woods did ring:
And <1Pan>1 with all his Swaines came foorth,
            to heare the Sheepheard sing.
But such a Song sung never was,
            nor shall be sung againe:
Of <1Phillida>1 the Sheepheards Queene,
            and <1Coridon>1 the Swaine.
Faire <1Phillis>1 is the Sheepheards Queene,
            (was never such a Queene as she,)
And <1Coridon>1 her onely Swaine,
            (was never such a Swaine as he.)
Faire <1Phillis>1 hath the fairest face,
            that ever eye did yet behold:
And <1Coridon the constants faith,
            that ever yet kept flocke in fold.
Sweete <1Phillis>1 is the sweetest sweete,
            that ever yet the earth did yeeld:
And <1Coridon>1 the kindest Swaine,
            that ever yet kept Lambs in field,
Sweete <1Philomell>1 is <1Phillis>1 bird,
            though <1Coridon>1 be he that caught her:
And <1Coridon>1 dooth heare her sing,
            though <1Phillida>1 be she that taught her.
Poore <1Coridon>1 dooth keepe the fields,
            though <1Phillida>1 be she that owes them:
And <1Phillida>1 doothe walke the Meades,
            though <1Coridon>1 be he that mowes them.
The little Lambs are <1Phillis>1 love.
            though <1Coridon>1 is he that feedes them:

                      52
The Gardens faire are <1Phillis>1  ground,
         though <1Coridon>1 be he that weedes them.
Since then that <1Phillis>1 onely is,
         the onely Sheepheards onely Queene:
And <1Coridon>1 the onely Swaine,
         the onely hath her bower of state,
Though <1Phillis>1 keepe her bower of state,
         shall <1Coridon>1 consume away:
No Sheepheard no, worke out the weeke,
         And Sunday shall be holy-day
                                   N.Breton

    <1The passionate Sheepheards Song>1

    On a day, (alack the day,)
    LOVE whos moneth was ever May:
    Spied a blossome passing faire,
    Playing in the wanton ayre.
    Through the velvet leaves the wind,
    All unseene gan passage find:
    That the Sheepheard (sicke to death,)
    Wish'd himselfe the heavens breath.
    Ayre (quoth he) thy cheekes may blow,
    Ayre, would I might triumph so.
    But alas, my hand hath sworne,
    Nere to pluck thee from thy thorne.
    Vow (alack) for youth unmeete,
    Youth so apt to pluck a sweete.
    Thou for whom <1Jove>1 would sweare,
    <1Juno>1 but AEthiope were,
    And deny him selfe for <1Jove>1,
    Turning mortall for thy Love.
                                  W.Shakespeare
          53
<1The unknowne Sheepheards cmomplaint>1

My Flocks feede not, my Ewes breede not,
My Rammes speede not, all is amisse:
Love is denying, Faith is defying,
Harts renying, causer of this.
All my merry Jiggs are quite forgot,
All my Ladies love is lost God wot.
Where her faith was firmely fixt in love,
There a nay is plac'd without remove.
    One silly crosse, wrought all my losse,
    O frowning Fortune, cursed fickle Dame:
    For now I see, inconstancie
    More in women then in men remaine.

In black mourne I, all feares scorne I,
Love hath forlorne me, living in thrall:
Hart is bleeding, all helpe needing,
O cruell speeding, fraughted with gall.
My Sheepheards pipe can sound no deale,
My Weathers bell rings dolefull knell.
My curtaile dogge that wont to have plaide,
Playes not at all, but seemes afraide.
    With sighs so deepe, procures to weepe,
    In howling-wise, to see my dolefull plight:
    How sighs resound, through hartlesse ground,
    Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody
       fight.

Cleare Wells spring not, sweet birds sing not,
Greene plants bring not foorth their die:
Heards stand weeping, Flocks all sleeping,
Nimphs back peeping fearefully.
All our pleasure knowne to us poore Swaines,
All our merry meeting on the Plaines.
All our evening sports from us are fled,
All our love is not, for Love is dead.

                        54
Farewell sweete Love, thy like nere was,
For sweete content, the cause of all my moane:
Poore <1Coridon>1 must live alone,
Other helpe for him, I see that there is none.
                                          <1Ignoto>1


  <1Another of the same Sheepheards>1

     As it fell upon a day,
     In the merry moneth of May,
     Sitting in a pleasant shade,
     Which a grove of Mirtles made.
     Beasts did leape, and birds did sing,
     Trees did grow, and plants did spring.
     Every thing did banish moane,
     Save the Nightingale alone.
     Shee poore bird, as all forlorne,
     Lean'd her brest against a thorne,
     And there sung the dolefull'st Ditty,
     That to heare it was great pitty.
     Fie, fie, fie, now would she crie
     <1Teru, Teru,>1 by and by.
     That to heare her so complaine,
     Scarse I could from teares refraine.
     For her greefes so lively showne,
     Made me thinke upon mine owne.
     Ah (thought I) thou mourn'st in vaine,
     None takes pitty on thy paine.
     Sencelesse trees, they cannot heare thee,
     Ruthless beasts, they will not cheere thee.
     King <1Pandion>1 he is dead,
     All thy friends are lapt in Lead.

                     55
       All thy fellow birds doo sing,
       Carelesse of thy sorrowing.
       Even so poore bird like thee,
       None a-live will pitty mee.
                                        <1Ignoto>1

   <1The Sheepheards allusion of his owne>1
<1amorous infelicitie, to the offence of Actaeon>1

<1ACTAEON>1 lost in middle of his sport
Both shape and life, for looking but awry:
<1Diana>1 was afraide he would report
What secrets he had seene in passing by.
           To tell but truth, the selfe same hurt have I:
           By viewing her for whom I daily die.
I leese my wonted shape, in that my mind
Dooth suffer wrack upon the stonie rock
Of her disdaine, who contrarie to kind
Dooth beare a breast more hard than any stock;
           And former forme of limbs is changed
               quite:
           By cares in love, and want of due delight.
I leese my life, in that each secret thought,
Which I conceave through wanton fond regard:
Dooth make me say, that life avayleth nought,
Where service cannot have due reward.
           I dare not name the Nimph that works my
               smart,
           Though Love hath grav'n her name within
               my hart.
                                   <1Tho. Watson>1

                     56
    Montanus <1Sonnet to his faire>1 Phaebe

A TURTLE sate upon a leavelesse tree,
        Mourning her absent pheare,
        With sad and sorrie cheare.
        About her wondring stood,
        The Cittizens of wood.
        And whilst her plumes she rents,
        And for her Love laments:
        The stately trees complaine them,
        The birds with sorrow paine them.
        Each one that dooth her view,
        Her paines and sorrowes rue.
        But were the sorrowes knowne,
        That me hath over-throwne:
Or how would <1Phoebe>1 sigh, if she did looke on mee?

The love-sicke <1Polipheme>1 that could not see,
        Who on the barren shoare,
        His fortunes did deplore:
        And melteth all in mone,
        For <1Galatea>1 gone,
        And with his cries
        Afflicts both earth and skies,
        And to his woe betooke,
        Dooth breake both pipe and hooke.
        For whom complaines the morne,
        For whom the Sea-Nimphs mourne.
        Alas his paine is nought,
        For were my woe but thought:
Oh how would <1Phoebe>1 sigh, if she did looke on me?

        Beyond compare my paine,
           yet glad am I:
        If gentle <1Phoebe>1 daine,
           to see her <1Montan>1 die.

                                       <1Thom. Lodge>1

                        57
Phaebes <1Sonnet, a replie to>1 Montanus
                <1passion>1

      DOWNE a downe,
         Thus <1Phillis>1 sung,
         By fancie once distressed:
      Who so by foolish Love are stung
         are worthily oppressed.
      And so sing I, with downe a downe, &c.

When Love was first begot,
And by the mothers will:
Did fall to humane lot,
His solace to fulfill.
Devoide of all deceite,
A chast and holy fire:
Did quicken mans conceite,
And womens breasts inspire.
The Gods that saw the good,
That mortalls did approove:
With kinds and holy moode,
Began to talke of Love,
      Downe a downe,
         Thus <1Phillis>1 sung
         By fancie once distressed, &c.

But during this accord,
A wonder strange to heare:
Whilst Love in deede and word,
Most faithfull did appeare;
False semblance came in place,
By Jealousie attended:
And with a double face,
Both love and fancie flie;
Which made the Gods forsake,
And men from fancie flie;
And Maydens scorne a make,
Forsooth and so will I.

                     58
      Downe a downe,
         Thus <1Phillis>1 sung,
         By fancie once distressed:
      Who so by foolish Love are stung,
         Are worthily oppressed.
      And so sing I, with downe a downe, &c.

                                <1Thom. Lodge>1

Coridons <1supplication to>1 Phillis

SWEETE <1Phillis,>1 if a silly Swaine,
               may sue to thee for grace:
See not thy loving Sheepheard slaine,
               with looking on thy face.
But thinke what power thou hast got,
               upon my Flock and mee:
Thou seest they now regard me not,
               but all doo follow thee.
And if I have so farre presum'd,
               with prying in thine eyes:
Yet let not comfort be consum'd,
               that in thy pitty lyes.
But as thou art thy <1Phillis>1 faire,
               that Fortune favour gives:
So let not Love dye in despaire,
               that in they favour lives.
The Deere doo brouse upon the bryer,
               the birds doo pick the cherries:
And will not Beauty graunt Desire,
               one handfull of her berries?
If it be so that thou has sworne,
               that none shall looke on thee:

                    59
Yet let me know thou doost not scorne,
              to cast a looke on mee.
But if thy beauty make thee proude,
              thinke then what is ordain'd:
The heavens have never yet alow'd,
              that Love should be disdain'd.
Then least the Fates that favour Love,
              shoud curse thee for unkind:
Let me report for thy behoove,
              the honour of thy mind.
Let <1Coridon>1 with full consent,
              set downe what he hath seene:
That <1Phillida>1 with Loves content,
              is sworne the Sheepheards Queene.

                                     N. Breton


  Damaetas <1Madrigall in praise of his>1
              Daphnis

TUNE on my pipe the praises of my Love,
           Love faire and bright:
Fill earth with sound, and ayrie heavens above,
           heaven's <1Joves>1 delight,
           with <1Daphnis>1 praise.

To pleasant <1Tempe>1 Groves and Plaines about,
           Plaines, Sheepheards pride:
Resounding Ecchoes of her praise ring out,
           ring farre and wide.
           my <1Daphnis>1 praise.

                 60
When I begin to sing, begin to sound,
             sounds loud and shrill:
Doo make each note unto the skies rebound,
             skies calme and still,
             with <1Daphnis>1 praise.

Her tresses are like wiers of beaten gold,
             Gold bright and sheene:
Like <1Nysus>1 golden haire that <1Scilla>1 pold,
             <1Scill,>1 ore-seene
             through <1Minos>1 love.

Her eyes like shining Lamps in midst of night,
             Night darke and dead:
Or as the Starres that give the Sea-men light,
             Light for to leade
             their wandring Ships.

Admist her cheekes the Rose and Lilly strive,
             Lilly, snow-white:
When their contend dooth make their colour thrive.
             Colour too bright
             for Sheepheards eyes.

Her lips like Scarlet of the finest die,
             Scarlet blood-red:
Teeth white as Snow, which on the hills dooth lie,
             Hills over-spread
             by Winters force.

Her skinne as soft as is the finest silke,
             Silke soft and fine:
Of colour like unto the whitest milke,
             Milke of the Kine
             of <1Daphinis>1 Heard.

                      61
     As swift of foote as is the pretty Roe,
                   Roe swift of pace:
     When yelping Hounds pursue her to and fro,
                   Hounds fierce in chase,
                   to reave her life.

     Cease tongue to tell of any more compares,
                   Compares too rude:
     <1Daphnis>1 deserts and beauty are too rare,
                   Then heere conclude
                   faire <1Daphnis>1 praise.

                                             J. Wootton

      Dorons <1description of his faire>1
        <1Sheepheardess>1 Samela

LIKE to <1Diana in her Sommer weede,
Girt with a Crimson roabe of brightest die:
          goes faire <1Samela.>1
Whiter then be the flocks that stragling feed,
When wash'd by <1Arethusa,>1 faint they lie,
          is faire <1Samela.>1
As faire <1Aurora>1 in her morning gray,
Deckt with the ruddy glister of her love:
          is faire <1Samela.>1
Like lovely <1Thetis>1 on a calmed day,
When as her brightnes <1Neptune>1 fancies move,
          shines faire <1Samela.>1
Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassie streames,
Her teeth are pearle, the brests are Ivorie:
          of faire <1Samela.>1
Her cheekes like Rose and Lilly yeeld foorth gleames,

                  62
Her browes bright arches fram'd of Ebonie,
               thus faire <1Samela>1
Passeth faire <1Venus>1 in her brightest hew,
And <1Juno>1 in the shew of Majestie:
               for she's <1Samela.>1
<1Pallas>1 in wit, all three if you well view,
For beauty, wit, and matchlesse dignitie,
               yeeld to <1Samela.>1

                                     <1Ro. Greene.>1

  Wodenfrides <1Song in praise of>1
          Amargana

THE Sunne the season in each thing
Revives new pleasures, the sweet Spring
Hath put flight the Winter keene:
To glad our lovely Sommer Queene.

The pathes where <1Amargana>1 treads,
With flowrie tap'stries <1Flora>1 spreads.
And Nature cloathes the ground in greene:
To glad our lovely Sommer Queene.

The Groaves put on their rich aray,
With Hawthorne bloomes imbroydered gay,
And sweet perfum'd with Eglantine:
To glad our lovely Sommer Queene.

The silent River stayes his course,
Whilst playing on the christall sourse,
The silver scaled fish are seene,
To glad our lovely Sommer Queene.

              63
The Woods at her faire sight rejoyces,
The little birds with their lowd voyces,
In consort on the bryers beene,
To glad our lovely Sommer Queene.

The fleecie Flocks doo scud and skip,
The wood-Nimphs, Fawnes, and Satires trip,
And daunce the Mirtle trees betweene:
To glad our lovely Sommer Queene.

Great <1Pan>1 (our God) for her deere sake,
This feast and meeting bids us make,
Of sheepheards, Lads, and Lasses sheene:
To glad our lovely Sheepheards Queene.

And every Swaine his chaunce dooth prove,
To winne faire <1Amarganaes>1 love,
In sporting strifes quite voide of spleene:
To glad our lovely Sommer Queene.

All happines let Heaven her lend,
And all the Graces her attend.
Thus bid me pray the Muses nine,
Long live our lovely Sommer Queene.
                                    <1W.H.>1


        <1Another of the same>1

     HAPPY Sheepheards sit and see,
                    with joy,
            The peerelesse wight:
     For whose sake Pan keeps from ye
                    annoy,
            And gives delight.
                  64

      Blessing this pleasant Spring,
      Her praises must I sing.
      List you Swaines, list to me:
      The whiles your Flocks feeding be.

First her brow a beauteous Globe,
                   I deeme,
         And golden haire;
And her cheeke <1Auroraes>1 roabe,
                   dooth seeme,
         But farre more faire,
     Her eyes like starres are bright.
     And dazle with their light,
     Rubies her lips to see,
     But to tast, Nectar they be.

Orient pearles her teeth, her smile
                   dooth linke
         the Graces three:
Her white necke dooth eyes beguile
                   to thinke
         it Ivorie.
    Alas her Lilly-hand,
    How it dooth me commaund?
    Softer silke none can be:
    And whiter milke none can see.

<1Circes>1 wand is not so straite,
                   as is
         Her body small:
But two pillers beare the waight
                   of this
         majestick Hall.
    Those be I you assure,
    Of Alablaster pure,
    Polish's fine in each part:
    Ne're Nature yet shewed like Art.
              65
    How shall I her pretty tread
                       expresse
            when she dooth walke?
    Scarse she dooth the Primrose head
                       depresse,
            or tender stalke
            Of blew-veind Violets,
            Whereon her foote she sets.
            Vertuous she is, for we finde
            In body faire, beauteous minde.

    Live faire <1Amargana>1 still
                       extold
            In all my rime:
    Hand want Art, when I want will
                       t'unfold
             her woorth divine.
       But now my Muse dooth rest,
       Dispaire clos'd in my brest,
       Of the valour I sing:
       Weake faith that no hope dooth bring.
                                       <1W.H.>1


     <1An excellent Pastorall Dittie>1

  A CAREFULL Nimph, with carelesse greefe opprest,
    under the shaddow of an Ashen tree:
  With Lute in hand did paint out her unrest,
    unto a Nimph that bare her companie.
      No sooner had she tuned every string:
      But sob'd and sigh'd, and thus began to sing.

  Ladies and Nimphs, come listen to my plaint,
    on whom the cheerefull Sunne did never rise:
                         66
If pitties stroakes your tender breasts may taint,
   come learne of me to wet your wanton eyes.
     For Love in vaine the name of pleasure beares:
     His sweet delights are turned into feares.

The trustlesse shewes, the frights, the feeble joyes,
   the freezing doubts, the guilefull promises:
The feigned lookes, the shifts, the subtill toyes,
   the brittle hope, the steadfast heavines.
     The wished warre in such uncertaine peace:
     These with my woe, my woes with these increase.

Thou dreadfull God, that in thy Mothers lap,
   doo'st lye and heare the crie of my complaint,
And seest, and smilest at my sore mishap,
   that lacke but skill my sorrowes heere to paint:
     They fire from heaven before the hurt I spide,
     Quite through mine eyes into my brest did glide.

My life was light, my blood did spirt and spring,
   my body quicke, my hart began to leape:
And every thornie thought did prick and sting,
   the fruite of my desired joyes to reape.
     But he on whom to thinke, my soule still tyres:
     In bale forsooke, and left me in the bryers.

Thus Fancie strung my Lute to Layes of Love,
   and Love hath rock'd my wearie Muse-a-sleepe:
And sleepe is broken by the paines I prove,
   and every paine I feele dooth force me weepe,
     Then farewell fancie, love, sleepe, paine, and sore:
     And farewell weeping, I can waile no more.
                                       <1Shep. Tonie>1
                       67
    Phillidaes <1Love-call to her>1 Coriden, <1and>1
                     <1his replying>1

<1Phil.    CORIDON>1, arise my <1Coridon>1,
               <1Titan>1 shineth cleare:
<1Cor.>1   Who is it that calleth <1Coridon>1,
               who is it that I heare?
<1Phil.    Phillida>1 thy true-Love calleth thee,
               arise then, arise then;
                 arise and keepe thy flock with me:
<1Cor.     Phillida>1 my true-Love, is it she?
               I come then, I come then,
                 I come and keepe my flock with thee.

<1Phil.>1  Heere are cherries ripe my <1Coridon>1,
               eate them for my sake:
<1Cor.>1   Heere's my Oaten pipe my lovely one,
               sport for thee to make.
<1Phil.>1  Heere are threeds my true-Love, fine as silke,
               to knit thee, to knit thee
                 a paire of stockings white as milke.
<1Cor.>1   Heere are Reedes my true-Love, fine and neate,
               to make thee, to make thee
                 a Bonnet to with-stand the heate.

<1Phil.>1  I will gather flowers my <1Coridon>1,
               to set in thy cap:
<1Cor.>1   I will gather Peares my lovely one,
               to put in thy lap.
<1Phil.>1  I will buy my true-Love Garters gay,
               for Sundayes, for Sundayes,
                 to weare about his legs so tall:
<1Cor.>1   I will buy my true-Love yellow Say,
               for Sundayes, for Sundayes,
                 to weare about her middle small.
                             68
<1Phil.>1 When my <1Coridon>1 sits on a hill,
             making melodie:
<1Cor.>1  When my lovely one goes to her wheele
             singing cherilie.
<1Phil.>1 Sure me thinks my true-Love dooth excell
             for sweetnes, for sweetnes,
                our <1Pan>1 that old Arcadian Knight:
<1Cor.>1  And me thinks my true-Love beares the bell
             for clearenes, for clearenes,
                beyond the Nimphs that be so bright.

<1Phil.>1 Had my <1Coridon>1, my <1Coridon>1,
             beene (alack) my Swaine:
<1Cor.>1  Had my lovely one, my lovely one,
             beene in <1Ida>1 plaine.
<1Phil.   Cinthis Endimion>1 had refus'd,
             preferring, preferring
                my <1Coridon>1 to play with-all:
<1Cor.>1  The Queene of Love had beene excus'd,
             bequeathing, bequeathing,
                my <1Phillida>1 the golden ball.

<1Phil.>1 Yonder comes my Mother, <1Coridon>1,
             whether shall I flie?
<1Cor.>1  Under yonder Beech my lovely one,
             while she passeth by.
Say to her thy true-Love was not heere,
             remember, remember,
                to morrow is another day:
<1Phil.>1 Doubt me not, my true-Love, doo not feare,
             farewell then, farewell then,
                heaven keepe our loves alway.
                                             <1Ignoto>1
                         69
                  <1The Sheepheards solace>1
     <1PHAEBUS>1 delights to view his laurell tree,
     The Poplar pleaseth <1Hercules>1 alone:
     <1Melissa>1 mother is and fautrixe to the Bee,
     <1Pallas>1 will weare the Olive branch alone.
            Of Sheepheards and their flocks <1Pales>1 is Queene:
            And <1Ceres>1 ripes the Corne was lately greene.
     To <1Chloris>1 every flower belongs of right,
     The <1Dryade>1 Nimphs of woods make chiefe account:
     <1Oreades>1 in hills have their delight,
     <1Dianna>1 dooth protect each bubling Fount.
            To <1Hebe>1 lovely kissing is assign'd:
            To <1Zephire>1 every gentle-breathing wind.
     But what is Loves delight? To hurt each where
     He cares not whom, with Darts of deepe desire:
     With watchfull jealousie, with hope, with feare,
     With nipping cold, and secret flames of fire.
            O happy houre, wherein I did forgoe:
            This little God, so great a cause of woe.
                                            <1Tho. Watson>1
     <1fautrixe>1] feminine of <1fautor, supporter, patrones>1


                  Syrenus <1Song to>1 Eugerius

     LET now the goodly Spring-tide make us merrie,
            And fields, which pleasant flowers doo adorne:
            And Vales, Meades, Woods, with lively colours
                flourish,
     Let plenteous flocks the Sheepheards riches nourish,
            Let hungry Woolves by dogges to death be torne,
            And Lambes rejoyce, with passes winter wearie.
                Let every Rivers Ferrie
            In waters flow, and silver streames abounding,
                And fortune, ceaseless wounding.
                           70
        Turne now thy face, so cruell and unstable,
            Be firme and favourable.
        And thou that kill'st our soules with thy
             pretences:
        Molest not (wicked Love) my inward sences.

   Let Country plainenes live in joyes not ended,
       In quiet of the desert Meades and mountaines,
       And in the pleasure of a Country dwelling
   Let Sheepheards rest, that have distilled fountaines
       Of teares: proove not thy wrath, all paines
             excelling,
       Upon poore soules, that never have offended.
           Let thy flames be incended
        In haughtie Courts, in those that swim in
             treasure,
           And live in ease and pleasure.
       And that a sweetest scorne (my wonted sadnes)
           A perfect rest and gladnes
       And hills and Dales, may give me: with offences
       Molest not (wicked Love) my inward sences.

   In what law find'st thou, that the freest reason
       And wit, unto thy chaines should be subjected,
       And harmelesse soules unto thy cruell murder?
   O wicked Love, the wretch that flieth furder
       From thy extreames, thou plagu'st. O false,
             suspected,
       And carelesse boy, that thus thy sweets doost
             season,
           O vile and wicked treason.
        Might not thy might suffise thee, but thy fuell
           Of force must be so cruell?
        To be a Lord, yet like a Tyrant minded,
           Vaine boy with errour blinded.
        Why doost thou hurt his life with thy offences:
        That yeelds to thee his soule and inward sences?
                          71
He erres (alas) and foulely is deceaved
  That calls thee God, being a burning fire:
  A furious flame, a playning greefe and clamorous,
And <1Venus>1 sonne (that in the earth was amorous,
  Gentle, and mild, and full of sweet desire)
  Who calleth him, is of his wits bereaved.
        And yet that she conceaved
   By proofe, so vile a sonne and so unruly:
        I say (and yet say truly)
   That in the cause of harmes, that they have
         framed,
        Both justly may be blamed:
   She that did breede him with such vile pretences,
   He that dooth hurt so much our inward sences.

The gentle Sheepe and Lambs are ever flying
  The ravenous Woolves and beasts, that are
         pretending
  To glut their mawes with flesh they teare asunder.
The milke-white Doves at noyse of fearefull thunder
  Flie home a-maine, themselves from harme
         defending.
  The little Chick, when Puttocks are a crying,
        The Woods and Meadowes dying
    For raine of heaven (if that they cannot have it)
        Doo never cease to crave it.
    So every thing his contrary resisteth,
        Onely thy thrall persisteth
    In suffering of thy wrongs without offences:
    And lets thee spoile his hart and inward sences.

A publique passion, Natures lawes restrayning,
  And which with words can never be declared,
  A soule twixt love, and feare, and desperation,
And endlesse plaint, that shuns all consolation,
  A spendlesse flame, that never is impaired,

                       72
  A friendlesse death, yet life in death mantayning,
         A passion, that is gayning
    On him that loveth well, and is absented,
         Whereby it is augmented.
  A jealousie, a burning greefe and sorrow,
         These favours Lovers borrow
    Of thee fell Love, these be thy recompences:
    Consuming still their soule and inward sences.

                                         <1Bar. Yong>1


    <1The Sheepheard>1 Arsileus <1replie to>1
               Syrenus <1Song>1

O LET that time a thousand moneths endure,
Which brings from heaven the sweet and silver
               showers,
And joyes the earth (of comfort late deprived)
      With grasse and leaves, fine buds, and painted
               flowers.
     Ecchoe, returne unto the woods obscure.
     Ring forth the Sheepheards Songs in love
               contrived.
             Let old loves be revived,
     Which angry Winter buried but of late,
             And that in such a state
     My soule may have the full accomplishment
             Of joy and sweet content.
     And since fierce paines and greefes thou doost
               controule:
     Good Love, doo not forsake my inward soule.

                   73
Presume not (Sheepheards) once to make you merrie,
With springs, and flowers, or any pleasant Song,
(Unlesse mild Love possesse your amorous breasts)
    If you sing not to him, your Songs doo wearie,
    Crowne him with flowers, or else ye doo him
                wrong,
    And consecrate your Springs to his behests.
             I to my Sheepheardesse
    My happy loves with great content doo sing.
             And flowers to her doo bring.
    And sitting neere her by the River side,
             Enjoy the brave Spring-tide.
    Since then thy joyes such sweetnes dooth
             enroule:
    Good Love, doo not forsake my inward soule.

The wise (in auncient time) a God thee nam'd,
Seeing that with they power and supreame might,
Thou didst such rare and mighty wonders make:
    For thee a hart is frozen and enflam'd,
    A foole thou mak'st a wise man with thy light,
    The coward turnes couragious for thy sake.
             The mighty Gods quake
    At thy commaund: To birds and beasts
                transformed,
             Great Monarches have not scorned
    To yeeld unto the force of beauties lure:
             Such spoiles thou doost procure
    With thy brave force, which never may be tould:
    With which (sweet Love) thou conquer'st every
                soule.

In other times obscurely I did live
But with a drowsie, base, and simple kinde
Of life, and onely to my profit bend me:
    To thinke of Love my selfe I did not give,
    Or for good grace, good parts, and gentle minde,
    Never did any Sheepheardesse commend me.
              But crowned now they send me
                       74
    A thousand Garlands, that I wone with praise,
              In wrastling dayes by dayes,
    In pitching of the barre with arme most strong,
              And singing many a Song.
    After that thou didst honour, and take hould
    Of me (sweet Love) and of my happy soule.

What greater joy can any man desire,
Then to remaine a Captive unto Love:
And have his hart subjected to his power?
    And though sometimes he tast a little sower
    By suffering it, as mild as gentle Dove
    Yet must he be, in liew of that great hire
              Whereto he dooth aspire:
    If Lovers live afflicted and in paine,
              Let them with cause complaine
    Of cruell fortune, and of times abuse,
              And let not them accuse
    Thee (gentle-Love) that dooth with blisse enfould
    Within thy sweetest joyes each living soule.

Behold a faire sweete face, and shining eyes,
Resembling two most bright and twinkling starres,
Sending unto the soule a perfect light:
    Behold the rare perfections of those white
    An Ivorie hands, from greefes most surest barres:
    That mind wherein all life and glory lyes,
              That joy that never dyes,
    That he dooth feele, that loves and is beloved,
              And my delights approoved,
    To see her pleas'd, whose love maintaines me
                heere,
              All those I count so deere,
    That though sometimes Love dooth my joyes
                controule:
    Yet am I glad he dwels within my soule.

                                      <1Bar. Yong>1

                     75
          <1A Sheepheards dreame>1
 A SILLY Sheepheard lately sate
          among a flock of sheepe:
 Where musing long on this and that,
          at last he fell a sleepe.
 And in the slumber as he lay,
          he gave a pitteous groane:
 He thought his sheepe were runne away,
          and he was left alone
 He whoopt,and whistled,and he call'd,
          but not a sheepe came neere him:
 Which made the Sheepheard score appall'd,
          to see that none would heare him.
 But as the swaine amazed stood,
          in this most solemne vaine:
 Came <1Phillida>1 foorth of the wood,
          and stoode before the swaine.
 Whome when the Sheepheard did behold,
          he straite began to weepe:
 And at the hart he grew a cold,
          to thinke upon his sheepe.
 For well he knew, where came the Queene,
          the Sheepheard durst not stay:
 And where he durst not be seene,
          the sheepe must needes away.
 To ask her if she saw his flock,
          might happen pacience moove:
 And have an aunswere with a mock,
          that such demaunders proove.
 Yet for because he saw her come
          alone out of the wood:
 He thought he would not stand as dombe,
          when speach might doo him good.
 Ans therefore falling on his knees,
          to aske but for his sheepe:
 He did awake, and so did leese
          the honour of his sleepe.   <1N.Berton>1
                   76
    <1The Sheepheards Ode>1

 NIGHTS were short, dayes were long,
 Blossomes on the Hawthorne hong,
 <1Philomell>1(Night-Musiques King,)
 Told the comming of the spring:
 Whose sweete-sliver-sounding-voyce,
 Made the little bird rejoyce,
 Skipping light from spray to spray,
 Till <1Auora>1 shew'd the day.
 scarse might one see,when I might see
 (For such chaunces sudden be)
 By a Well of Marble-stone,
 A sheepheard lying all a-lone.
 Weepe he did, and his weeping
 Made the fading flowers spring.
 <1Daphins>1 was his name I weene,
 Youngest swaine of sommers Queene.
 when <1Auora>1saw'twas he
 Weepe she did for compaine:
 Weepe she did for her sweete sonne
 That (when antique Troy was wonne)
 Suffer'd death by luckless fate,
 Whom she now laments too late:
 And each morning(by the cocks crewe)
 Showers down her silver dewe,
 Whose teare falling from the spring,
 Gives moisture to each living thing
 That on earth encrease and grow,
 Thourgh powder of their fiendly foe.
 Whose effect when <1Flora>1 felt,
 Teares that did her bosome melt,
 (For who can resist teares ofen,
 But she whome no teares can sofen?)
 Peering straite above the banks,
 Shew'd her selfe to give her thanks.
 Wondering thus at natures worke
 (Wherein many mervailes lurke)
                   77
 Me thought I heard a dolefull noyse,
 Consorted with a mournfull voyce,
 Drawing neere,to heare more plaine,
 Heare I did unto my paine,
 (For who is not pain'd to heare
  Him in greife whome harts more deere?)
 Silly swaine with greife ore-gone
 Thus to make a pitteous mone.
 Love I did alas the while,
 Love I did but did beguile
 My deere love,with loving so,
 Whome as then I did not know
 Love I did the fayrest boy
 That these feilds did ere enjoy
 Love I did faire<1Ganimede>1
 <1Venus>1darling beauties bed:
 Him I thought the fairest creture,
 Him the quintnessence of Nature.
 But ye (alas)I was deceav'd,
 (Love of reason is breav'd,)
 For since then I saw a Lasse,
 Lasse that did in beauty passe,
 Passe faire <1Ganimede>1 as farre
 As <1phaebus>1 dooth the smallest starre.
 Love commaunded me to love,
 Fanice bad me but not remove
 My affection from the swaine
 Whome I never could obtaine:
 (For who can obtaine that favour
 Which he can not graunt the craver?)
 Love at last (though loth)prevail'd
 Love that so my hearts assail'd,
 Wounding me with faire eyes
 Wounding me with her faire eyes
 Ah how Love can subtillize?
 And diverse a thousand shifts
 How to worke men to his drifts.
 Her it is for whom I morune,
 Her for whom my life I scorne.
                  78
 Her for whom I weepe all day,
 Her for whom I sigh, and say
 Eyther she, or eles no creature
 Shall enjoy my love: whose feature
 Though I never can obtaine,
 Yet shall my true love remaine
 Till(my body turn'd to clay)
 My poore soule must pass away,
 To the heavens;where I hope
 It shall find my resting scope.
 Then since I Loved thee alone,
 Rember me when I am gone.
 Scare had he these last words spoken,
 But me thought his hart was broken,
 With greate greife that did abound
 (Cares and greefe the hart confound.)
 In whose hart thus riv'd in three,
 <1Eliza>1 written I might see
 in caracters of crimson blood,
 Whose meaning well I understood.
 Which for my hart might not behold:
 I hied me home my sheepe to fold.

                             <1Rich.Barnefielde>1

  <1The Sheepheards Commendation of>1
             <1his Nimph>1

 WHAT Sheepheard can expresse

 The favour of her face?
 To whom in this distresse
 I doo appeale for grace.
     A thousand <1 Cupids>1 flye
 About her gentle eye.

          79
 From which each throwes a dart,
 That kindleth soft sweet fire
 Within my sighing hart,
 Possessed by desire.
        No sweeter life I trie
        Then in her love to die.

 The Lilly in the field,
 That glorise in his white:
 For purenes now must yeeld
 And render up his right.
        Heaven pictur'd in her face,
        Dooth promise joy and grace.

 Faire <1Cinthiaes>1
 Faire <1Cinthiaes>1 silver light,
 That beates on running streames:
 Compares not with her white
 Whose haires are all sunne-beames.
        So bright my nimph dooth shine
        As day unto eyne.

 With this there is a red,
 Exceedes the damaske-rose:
 Which in her cheekes spreds,
 Whence every favour growes.
        In skie there is no starre,
        But she sumounts it faire

 When <1Phaebus>1
 When <1Phaebus>1 from  the bed
 Of <1Thetis>1dooth arise;
 The morning blushing red
 In faire Carnation wise:
        He shewes in my Nimphs face,
        As Queene of every grace.

                   80

 This pleasant Lilly white,
 This taint of Roseate red:
 This <1Cinthiaes>1 silver light,
 This sweete faire Dea spred,
        These sun-beames in mine eye,
        These beauties make me die.

                             <1Earl of Oxenford>1


                Coridon <1to his>1 Phillis

           ALAS my hart, mine eye hath wronged thee,
           Presumptuous eye, to gaze on <1Phillis>1 face:
           Whose heavenly eye no mortall man may see,
           But he must die, or purchase <1Phillis>1 grace,
                   Poore <1Coridon>1, the Nimph whose eye dooth
                       moove thee:
                   Dooth love to draw, but is not drawne to love
                       thee.
           Her beautie, Natures pride, and Sheepheards praise,
           Her eye, the heavenly Planet of my life:
           Her matchless wit and grace, her fame displaies,
           As if that <1Jove>1 had made her for his wife.
                   Onely her eyes shoote fierie darts to kill:
                   Yet is her hart as cold as <1Caucase>1 hill.
           My wings too weake to flye against the sunne,
           Mine eyes unable to sustaine her light:
           My hart dooth yeeld that I am quite undone,
           Thus hath faire <1Phillis>1 slaine me with her sight.
                   My bud is blasted, withred is my leafe:
                   And all my corne is rotted in the sheafe.
           <1Phillis>1, the golden fetter of my minde,
           My fancies Idoll, and my vitall power:
           Goddesse of Nimphs, and honour of thy kinde,
           This ages <1Phoenix>1, beauties richest bower.

                                    81

        Poore <1Coridon>1 for love of thee must die:
        Thy beauties thrall, and conquest of thine
            eye.
Leave <1Coridon>1 to plough the barren field,
Thy buds of hope are blasted with disgrace:
For <1Phillis>1 lookes no harty love doo yeeld,
Nor can she love, for all her lovely face.
        Die <1Coridon>1, the spoile of <1Phillis>1 eye:
        She cannot love, an theefore thou must die.

                                       <1S.E. Dyer>1


   <1The Sheepheards description of Love>1

<1Melibeus.>1 SHEEPHEARD, what's Love, I pray thee tell?
 <1Faustus.>1 It is that Fountaine, and that Well,
              Where pleasure and repentance dwell.
              It is perhaps that sauncing bell,
                      That toules all into heaven or hell,
                      And this is Love as I heard tell.
    <1Meli.>1 Yet what is Love, I pre-thee say?
     <1Fau.>1 It is a worke on holy-day,
              It is December match'd with May,
              When lustie-bloods in fresh aray,
                      Heare ten moneths after of the play,
                      And this is Love, as I heare say.
    <1Meli.>1 Yet what is Love, good Sheepheard saine?
     <1Fau.>1 It is a Sun-shine mixt with raine,
              It is a tooth-ach, or like paine,
              It is a game where none dooth gaine,
                      The Lasse saith no, and would full
                          faine:
                      And this is Love, as I heare saine.
    <1Meli.>1 Yet Sheepheard, what is Love, I pray?
     <1Fau.>1 It is a yea, it is a nay,

                                82

              A pretty kind of sporting fray,
              It is a thing will soone away,
                      Then Nimphs take vantage while ye
                          may:
                      And this is love as I heare say.
    <1Meli.>1 Yet what is love, good Sheepheard show?
     <1Fau.>1 A thing that creepes, it cannot goe,
              A prize that passeth too and fro,
              A thing for one, a thing for moe,
                      And he that prooves shall finde it so;
                      And Sheepheard this is love I troe.

                                                   <1Ignoto>1


                <1To this Flocks>1

FEEDE on my Flocks securely,
Your Sheepheard watcheth surely,
Runne about my little Lambs,
Skip and wanton with your Dammes,
           Your loving Heard with care will tend ye:
Sport on faire flocks at pleasure,
Nip <1Vestaes>1 flowring treasure,
I my selfe will duely harke,
When my watchfull dogge dooth barke,
           From Woolfe and Foxe I will defend ye.

                                          <1H.C.>1

                         83

    <1A Roundelay between two Sheepheards>1

1.<1Shep.>1 TELL me thou gentle Sheepheards Swaine,
            Who'se yonder in the Vale is set?
2.<1Shep.>1 Oh it is she, whose sweetes doo staine,
            The Lilly, Rose, the Violet.

1.<1Shep.>1 Why dooth the Sunne against his kind,
            Fixe his bright Chariot in the skies?
2.<1Shep.>1 Because the Sunne is strooken blind,
            With looking on her heavenly eyes.

1.<1Shep.>1 Why doo thy flocks forbeare their food,
            Which sometime were thy chiefe delight?
2.<1Shep.>1 Because they neede no other good,
            That live in presence of her sight.

1.<1Shep.>1 Why looke these flowers so pale and ill,
            That once attir'd this goodly Heath?
2.<1Shep.>1 She hath rob'd Nature of her skill,
            And sweetens all things with her breath.

1.<1Shep.>1 Why slide these brookes so slow away,
            Whose bubling murmur pleas'd thine eare?
2.<1Shep.>1 Oh mervaile not although they stay,
            When they her heavenly voyce doo heare.

1.<1Shep.>1 From whence coe all these Sheepheards
               Swaines,
            And lovely Nimphs attir'd in greene?
2.<1Shep.>1 From gathering Garlands on the Plaines,
            To crowne our faire the Sheepheards Queene.

  <1Both.>1 The Sunne that lights this world below,
            Flocks, flowers, and brookes will witnesse
               beare:
            These Nimphs and Sheepheards all doo know,
            That it is she is onely faire.

                                          <1Mich. Drayton>1
                          84

        <1The solitarie Sheepheards Song>1

O SHADIE Vales, o faire enriched Meades,
    O sacred woods, sweet fields, and rising moun-
        taines:
O painted flowers, greene hearbs where <1Flora>1 treads,
    Refresht by wanton winds and watry foun-
      taines.

O all you winged Queristers of wood,
    that pearcht aloft, your former paines report:
And straite againe recount with pleasant moode,
    your present joyes in sweete and seemely sort.

O all you creatures whosoever thrive
    on mother earth, in Seas, by ayre, by fire:
More blest are you then I heere under Sunne,
    love dies in me, when as he dooth revive
In you, I perish under beauties ire,
    where after stromes, winds, frosts, your life is
        wunne.

                                        <1Thom. Lodge>1


  <1The Sheepheards resolution in love>1

IF <1Jove>1 him-selfe be subject unto Love,
And range the woods to finde a mortall pray,
If <1Neptune>1 from the Seas him-selfe remove,
And seeke on sands with earthly wights to play:
  Them may I love my Sheepheardesse by right,
  Who farre excells each other mortall wight?

                    85

If <1Pluto>1 could by Love be drawne from hell,
To yeeld him-selfe a silly virgins thrall.
If <1Phoebus>1 could vouchsafe on earth to dwell,
To winne a rustick Mayde unto his call:
    Then how much more should I adore the sight,
    Of her in whom the heavens them-selves delight?

If Country <1Pan>1 might follow Nimphs in chase,
And yet through love remaine devoide of blame,
If <1Satires>1 were excus'd for seeking grace,
To joy the fruites of any mortall Dame:
    My Sheepheardesse, why should not I love still
    On whom nor Gods nor men can gaze their fill?

                                <1Tho. Watson>1


  Coridons <1Hymne in praise of>1 Amarilis

    WOULD mine eyes were christall Fountaines,
    Where you might the shadow view
    Of my greefes, like to these mountaines
    Swelling for the losse of you.
    Cares which curelesse are alas,
    Helplesse, haplesse for they grow:
    Cares like tares in number passe,
    All the seedes that love dooth sow
    Who but could remember all
    Twinkling eyes still representing?
    Starres which pierce me to the gall,
    Cause they lend no more contenting.
    And you Nectar-lips, alluring
    Humane sence to tast of heaven:
    For no Art of mans manuring,
    Finer silke hath ever weaven.

                       86

Who but could remember this,
The sweete odours of your favour?
WhenI smeld I was in blisse,
Never felt I sweeter savour.
And your harmelesse hart annoynted,
As the custome was of Kings:
Shewes your sacred soule appoynted,
To be prime of earthly things.
Ending thus remember all,
Cloathed in a mantle greene:
Tis enough I am your thrall,
Leave to thinke what eye hath seene.
Yet the eye may not so leave,
Though the thought doo still repine:
But must gaze till death bequeath,
Eyes and thoughts unto her shrine.
Which if <1Amarillis>1 chaunce,
Hearing to make hast to see:
To life death she may advaunce.
Therefore eyes and thoughts goe free.

                                <1T.B.>1


<1The Sheepheard>1 Carillo <1his Song>1

       <1Guarda mi las Vaccas>1
           Carillo, <1por tu fe,>1
       <1Besa mi Primero,>1
           <1Yo te las guardare.>1

I PRE-THEE keepe my Kine for me
    <1Carillo,>1 wilt thou? Tell.
First let me have a kisse of thee,
    And I will keepe them well.

                87

If to my charge or them to keepe,
Thou doost commend thy Kine or Sheepe,
           For thee I doo suffise:
Because in this I have beene bred,
But for so much as I have fed
           By viewing thee, mine eyes;
    Commaund not me to keepe thy beast:
    Because my self I can keepe least.

How can I keepe, I pre-thee tell,
Thy Kie, my selfe that cannot well
           defend, nor please thy kinde,
As long as I have served thee?
But if thou wilt give unto me
           a kisse to please my minde:
    I aske no more for all my paine,
    And I will keepe them very faine.

For thee, the gift is not so great
That I doo aske, to keepe thy Neate,
           but unto me it is
A guerdon, that shall make me live.
Disdaine not then to lend or give
           so small a gift as this.
    But if to it thou canst not frame:
    Then give me leave to take the same.

But if thou doost (my sweet) denie
To recompence me by and by,
           thy promise shall relent me:
Heere-after some reward to finde,
Behold how I doo please my minde,
           and favours doo content me,
    That though thou speak'st it but in jest:
    I mean to take it at the best.
                 88
Behold how much love works in me,
And how ill recompenc'd of thee
           that with the shadow of
Thy happy favours (though delay'd)
I thinke my selfe right well appay'd,
           although they proove a scoffe.
    Then pity me, that have forgot;
    My selfe for thee, that carest not.

O in extreame thou art most faire,
And in extreame unjust despaire
           thy cruelty maintaines:
O that thou wert so pittifull
Unto these torments that doo pull
           my soule with sencelesse paines,
    As thou shew'st in that face of thine:
    Where pitty and mild grace should shine.

If that thy faire and sweetest face
Assureth me both peace and grace,
           thy hard and cruell hart:
Which in that white breast thou doo'st beare,
Dooth make me tremble yet for feare
           thou wilt not end my smart.
    In contraries of such a kinde:
    Tell me what succour shall I finde?

If then young Sheepheardesse thou crave
A Heards-man for thy beast to have,
           with grace thou maist restore
Thy Sheepheard from his barren love,
For never other shalt thou proove,
           that seekes to please thee more:
    And who to serve thy turne, will never shun,
    The nipping frost, and beames of parching
           sun.
                                    <1Bar. Yong>1
<1Kie] Kine faine]gladly>1
                     89
        Corins <1dreame of his faire>1 Chloris
WHAT time bright <1Titan>1 in the <Zenith>1 sat,
And equally the fixed poales did heate:
When to my flock my daily woes I chat,
And underneath a broade Beech tooke my seate.
The dreaming God which <1Morpheus>1 Poets call
Augmenting fuell to my <1Aetnaes>1 fire,
With sleepe possessing my weake sences all,
In apparitions makes my hopes aspire.
Me thought I saw the Nimph I would embrace,
With armes abroade comming to me for helpe:
A lust-led Satire having her in chace,
Which after her about the fields did yelpe.
I seeing my Love in such perplexed plight,
A sturdie bat from off an Oake I reft:
And with the Ravisher continued fight,
Till breathlesse I upon the earth him left.
Then when my coy Nimph saw her breathlesse foe,
With kisses kind she gratifies my paine:
Protesting rigour never more to show,
Happy was I this good hap to obtaine.
But drowsie slumbers flying to their Cell,
My sudden joy converted was to bale:
My wonted sorrowes still with me doo dwell,
I looked round about on hill and Dale:
But I could neither my faire <1Chloris>1 view,
Nor yet the Satire which yer-while I slew.
                                   <1W.S.>1
                     90