My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal;
My wether's bell rings doleful knell;
My curtail dog, that wont to have played,
Plays not at all but seems afraid;

With sighs so deep, procures to weep,

In howling-wise, to see my doleful plight:
How sighs resound through heartless ground,
Like a thousand vanquished men in bloody fight.

Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not,
Green plants bring not forth their dye;
Herds stand weeping, flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs back peeping fearfully.

All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
All our merry meeting on the plains,
All our evening sports, from us are fled;
All our love is lost, for Love is dead.

Farewell, sweet Love! thy like ne'er was
For sweet content, the cause of all my moan.
Poor Coridon must live alone;

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Other help for him I see that there is none.

1600.

PHYLLIDA'S LOVE-CALL TO HER CORYDON, AND HIS

Phyl.

REPLYING

Corydon! arise, my Corydon!

Titan shineth clear.

Cor. Who is it that calleth Corydon?

Who is it that I hear?

Phyl. Phyllida, thy true love calleth thee:
Arise then, arise then;

Arise, and keep thy flock with me!

Cor. Phyllida, my true love, is it she?
I come then, I come then,

I come and keep my flock with thee.

Phyl. Here are cherries ripe for my Corydon;
Eat them for my sake.

Cor. Here's my oaten pipe, my lovely one,
Sport for thee to make.

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IO

Phyl. Here are threads, my true love, fine as silk, 15 To knit thee, to knit thee,

A pair of stockings white as milk.

Cor. Here are reeds, my true love, fine and neat,

To make thee, to make thee,

A bonnet to withstand the heat.

Phyl. I will gather flowers, my Corydon,
To set in thy cap.

Cor. I will gather pears, my lovely one,
To put in thy lap.

Phyl. I will buy my true love garters gay,
For Sundays, for Sundays,

To wear about his legs so tall.

Cor. I will buy my true love yellow say,
For Sundays, for Sundays,

To wear about her middle small.

Phyl. When my Corydon sits on a hill,

Making melody,

Cor. When my lovely one goes to her wheel,
Singing cheerily;

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Phyl. Sure methinks my true love doth excel
For sweetness, for sweetness,

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Our Pan, that old Arcadian knight;

Cor. And methinks my true love bears the bell
For clearness, for clearness,

Beyond the nymphs that be so bright.

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Phyl. Had my Corydon, my Corydon,

Been, alack! her swain;

Cor. Had my lovely one, my lovely one,

Been in Ida plain;

Phyl. Cynthia Endymion had refused,

Preferring, preferring,

My Corydon to play withal;

Cor. The Queen of Love had been excused,
Bequeathing, bequeathing,

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My Phyllida the golden ball.

50

Phyl. Yonder comes my mother, Corydon;
Whither shall I fly?

Cor. Under yonder beech, my lovely one,
While she passeth by.

Phyl. Say to her thy true love was not here.
Remember, remember,

To-morrow is another day.

Cor. Doubt me not, my true love, do not fear.
Farewell then, farewell then!

Heaven keep our loves alway!

THE NEW JERUSALEM

Hierusalem, my happy home,

When shall I come to thee?

When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall I see?

O happy harbour of the saints!
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In thee no sorrow may be found,
No grief, no care, no toil.

There lust and lucre cannot dwell;

There envy bears no sway;

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1600.

5

ΙΟ

There is no hunger, heat, nor cold,

But pleasure every way.

Thy walls are made of precious stones;
Thy bulwarks, diamonds square;

Thy gates are of right orient pearl,

Exceeding rich and rare.

Thy turrets and thy pinnacles

With carbuncles do shine;

Thy very streets are paved with gold,
Surpassing .clear and fine.

Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem,

Would God I were in thee!

Would God my woes were at an end,

Thy joys that I might see!

Thy gardens and thy gallant walks

Continually are green;

There grows such sweet and pleasant flowers

As nowhere else are seen.

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Quite through the streets, with silver sound,

The flood of life doth flow;
Upon whose banks on every side

The wood of life doth grow.

WEEP YOU NO MORE, SAD FOUNTAINS

Weep you no more, sad fountains;
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste.

But my sun's heavenly eyes

View not your weeping,

That now lies sleeping,
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,

A rest that peace begets:
Doth not the sun rise smiling

When fair at ev'n he sets?
Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes;
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping,
Softly, now softly lies

Sleeping.

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40

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15

MAYING SONG

Sister, awake! close not your eyes!
The Day her light discloses,
And the bright Morning doth arise
Out of her bed of roses.

See, the clear Sun, the world's bright eye,

In at our window peeping:

Lo, how he blusheth to espy

Us idle wenches sleeping.

Therefore, awake! make haste, I say,

And let us, without staying,

All in our gowns of green so gay
Into the park a-Maying!

1604.

YE LITTLE BIRDS THAT SIT AND SING

Ye little birds that sit and sing

Amidst the shady valleys,
And see how Phyllis sweetly walks
Within her garden alleys,

Go, pretty birds, about her bower!
Sing, pretty birds; she may not lower!
Ah me, methinks I see her frown:

Ye pretty wantons, warble!

Go tell her, through your chirping bills,
As you by me are bidden,

To her is only known my love,

Which from the world is hidden:

Go, pretty birds, and tell her so!

5

ΙΟ

5

ΙΟ

See that your notes strain not too low,

For still, methinks, I see her frown:
Ye pretty wantons, warble!

15

Go, tune your voices' harmony,
And sing I am her lover!

Strain loud and sweet, that ev'ry note

With sweet content may move her!

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