The shepherd blushed when Phyllis questioned so,

And swore by Pan it was not for his flocks; “'Tis love, fair Phyllis, breedeth all this woe,

My thoughts are trapped within thy lovely locks, Thine eye hath pierced, thy face hath set on fire; Fair Phyllis kindleth Coridon's desire." “ Can shepherds love?” said Phyllis to the swain;

Such saints as Phyllis,” Coridon replied ; “Men when they lust can many fancies feign,”

Said Phyllis ; this not Coridon denied, “That lust had lies, but love," quoth he, "says truth ; Thy shepherd loves,-then, Phyllis, what ensu'th ?” Phyllis was won, she blushed and hung the head ;

The swain stepped to, and cheered her with a kiss ; With faith, with troth, they struck the matter dead ;

So used they when men thought not amiss : This love begun and ended both in one; Phyllis was loved, and she liked Coridon. (Ibid.)

a

Dorastus’ Praise of Fawnia
AH, were she pitiful as she is fair,

Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair,

Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand,

That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land

Under wide heavens, but yet [there is] not such. So as she shows, she seems the budding rose,

Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower; Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows,

Compassed she is with thorns and cankered bower : Yet were she willing to be plucked and worn, She would be gathered, though she grew on thorn. Ah, when she sings, all music else be still, For none must be compared to her note ;

Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill, Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat. Ah, when she riseth from her blissful bed,

She comforts all the world, as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapours fled; When she is set, the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun, imagine me the west,

Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast! (Pandosto.)

Maesia's Song

SWEET are the thoughts that savour of content;
The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent ;
The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown:
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.

The homely house that harbours quiet rest;
The cottage that affords no pride nor care;
The mean that 'grees with country music best;
The sweet consort of mirth and modest fare;
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss:
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.
(Farewell to Folly.)

An Ode

Down the valley 'gan he track,
Bag and bottle at his back,
In a surcoat all of gray ;-
Such wear palmers on the way,
When with scrip and staff they see
Jesus' grave on Calvary ;-
A hat of straw, like a swain,
Shelter for the sun and rain,
With a scallop shell before;
Sandals on his feet he wore ;

Legs were bare, arms unclad :
Such attire this palmer had.
His face fair like Titan's shine;
Gray and buxom were his eyne,
Whereout dropped pearls of sorrow :
Such sweet tears love doth borrow,
When in outward dews she plains
Heart's distress that lovers pains ;
Ruby lips, cherry cheeks:

Such rare mixture Venus seeks,
When to keep her damsels quiet,
Beauty sets them down their diet.
Adon was not thought more fair;
Curled locks of amber hair,
Locks where love did sit and twine
Nets to snare the gazer's eyne.
Such a palmer ne'er was seen,
'Less Love himself had palmer been.
Yet, for all he was so quaint,
Sorrow did his visage taint :
'Midst the riches of his face,
Grief deciphered high disgrace.
Every step strained a tear;
Sudden sighs showed his fear;
And yet his fear by his sight
Ended in a strange delight,
That his passions did approve,
Weeds and sorrow were for love.

(Never Too Late.)

The Palmer's Ode

OLD Menalcas, on a day,
As in field this shepherd lay,
Tuning of his oaten pipe,
Which he hit with many a stripe,

Said to Coridon that he

Once was young and full of glee. "Blithe and wanton was I then : Such desires follow men.

As I lay and kept my sheep,
Came the God that hateth sleep,
Clad in armour all of fire,
Hand in hand with queen Desire,
And with a dart that wounded nigh,
Pierced my heart as I did lie;
That when I woke I 'gan swear
Phyllis beauty's palm did bear.
Up I start, forth went I,
With her face to feed mine eye;
There I saw Desire sit,
That my heart with love had hit,
Laying forth bright beauty's hooks
To entrap my gazing looks.
Love I did, and 'gan to woo,
Pray and sigh ; all would not do:
Women, when they take the toy,
Covet to be counted coy.
Coy she was, and I'gan court;
She thought love was but a sport;
Profound hell was in my thought:
Such a pain desire had wrought,
That I sued with sighs and tears ;
Still ingrate, she stopped her ears,
Till my youth I had spent.
Last a passion of repent
Told me flat, that Desire
Was a brand of love's fire,
Which consumeth men in thrall,
Virtue, youth, wit, and all.
At this saw back I start,
Beat Desire from my heart,
Shook off Love, and made an oath
To be enemy to both.
Old I was when thus I fled
Such fond toys as cloyed my head;
But this I learned at Virtue's gate,
The way to good is never late."
Nunquam sera est ad bonos mores via.

(Ibid.)

SITTING by a river side,
Where a silent stream did glide,
Banked about with choice flowers,
Such as spring from April showers,
When fair Iris smiling shows
All her riches in her dews;
Thick-leaved trees so were planted
As nor Art nor Nature wanted ;
Bord’ring all the brook with shade
As if Venus there had made
By Flora's wile a curious bower
To dally with her paramour.

At this current as I gazed,
Eyes entrapped, mind amazed,
I might see in my

ken
Such a flame as fireth men,
Such a fire as doth fry
With one blaze both heart and eye,
Such a heat as doth prove
No heat like to heat of love.
Bright she was,—for 'twas a she
That traced her steps towards me;
On her head she wore a bay,
To fence Phoebus' light away ;
In her face one might descry
The curious beauty of the sky;
Her eyes carried darts of fire,
Feathered all with swift desire ;
Yet forth these fiery darts did pass
Pearlèd tears as bright as glass,
That wonder 'twas in her eyne
Fire and water should combine-
If th' old saw did not borrow

Fire is love and water sorrow. 1 Cf. the opening couplet of “Philomela's Ode" in Philomela. (See p. 44.) P.6 c

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