Who would not this sight desire,
Though he thought to see no more?
O fair eyes, yet let me see
One good look, and I am gone;
Look on me, for I am he,
Thy poor silly Coridon.
Thou that art the shepherd's queen,
Look upon thy silly swain:
By thy comfort have been seen
Dead men brought to life again.
CORIDON'S SUPPLICATION TO PHILLIS.
Sweet Phillis, if a silly swain
May sue to thee for grace,
See not thy loving shepherd slain,
For looking on thy face.
But think what power thou hast got,
Upon my flock and me;
Thou see'st they now regard me not,
But all do follow thee.
And if I have so far presumed,
With prying in thine eyes; Yet let not comfort be consumed,
That in thy pity lies:
But as thou art that Phillis fair,
That Fortune favour gives,
So let not Love die in despair,
That in thy favour lives.
The deer do browse upon the brier,
The birds do pick the cherries :
And will not beauty grant desire
A handful of her berries?
If it be so that thou hast sworn,
That none shall look on thee;
Yet let me know thou dost not scorn
To cast a look on me.
But if thy beauty make thee proud,
Think then what is ordained:
The heavens have never yet allowed
That Love should be disdained.
Then lest the fates that favour Love
Should curse thee for unkind,
Let me report for thy behoove,
The honour of thy mind;
Let Coridon with full consent
Set down what he hath seen:
That Phillida, with Love's content, Is sworn the Shepherd's Queen.
"FULKE GREVILE, servant to Queen Elizabeth, Counsellor to King James, and friend to Sir Philip Sydney."-LORD BROOKE'S EPITAPH.
Away with these self-loving lads,
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads;
Away, poor souls that sigh, and weep,
In love of them that lie and sleep.
For Cupid is a merry god,
And forceth none to kiss the rod.
God Cupid's shafts, like destiny,
Doth either good or ill decree:
Desert is borne out of his bow,
Reward upon his feet doth go.
What fools are they that have not known
That Love likes no laws but his own.
My songs, they be of Cynthia's praise,
I wear her rings on holidays;
On every tree I write her name,
And every day I read the same.
Where Honour, Cupid's rival is,
There miracles are seen of his.
If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I blot her name out of the tree.
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then well-fare nothing once a year.
For many run, but one must win;
Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.
The worth that worthiness should move,
Is love, which is the due of love;
And love as well the shepherd can,
As can the mighty nobleman.
Sweet nymph, 'tis true, you worthy be,
Yet without love, nought worth to me.
I, with whose colours Myra dressed her head,
I, that wore posies of her own hand-making,
I, that mine own name in the chimneys read,
By Myra finely wrought ere I was waking:
Must I look on, in hope time coming may
With change bring back again my turn to play?
I, that on Sunday at the church-stile found
A garland sweet, with true-love knots in flowers,
Which I to wear about mine arm was bound,
That each of us might know that all was ours;
Must I now lead an idle life in wishes,
And follow Cupid for his loaves and fishes?
I, that did wear the ring her mother left,
I, for whose love she gloried to be blamed,
I, with whose eyes her eyes committed theft,
I, who did make her blush when I was named;
Must I lose ring, flowers, blush, theft, and go naked,
Watching with sighs till dead Love be awakéd?
I, that when drowsy Argus fell asleep,
Like Jealousy o'erwatched with Desire,
Was ever warnéd modesty to keep,
While her breath speaking kindled Nature's fire,
Must I look on a-cold while others warm them ?
Do Vulcan's brothers in such fine nets arm them?
Was it for this that I might Myra see,
Washing the water with her beauties, white?
Yet would she never write her love to me;
Thinks wit of change, while thoughts are in delight?
Mad girls may safely love, as they may leave:
No man can print a kiss Lines may deceive.
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