Phillida, my true love, is it she?
I come then, I come then,
I come and keep my flock with thee.
Phil. Here are cherries ripe my Corydon,
Eat them for my sake.
Here's my oaten pipe, my lovely one,
Sport for thee to make.
Phil. Here are threads, my true love, fine as silk,
To knit thee, to knit thee
A pair of stockings white as milk. Here are reeds, my true love, fine and neat, To make thee, to make thee
A bonnet to withstand the heat.
Phil. I will gather flowers my Corydon,
To set in thy cap.
I will gather pears, my lovely one,
To put in thy lap.
Phil. I will buy my true love garters gay,
For Sundays, for Sundays,
To wear about his legs so tall.
I will buy my true love yellow say1,
For Sundays, for Sundays,
To wear about her middle small
Phil. When my Corydon sits on a hill
When my lovely one goes to her wheel,
Singing cheerily.
Phil. Sure methinks my true love doth excel
For sweetness, for sweetness,
Our Pan that old Arcadian knight.
And methinks my true love bears the bell
For clearness, for clearness,
Beyond the nymphs that be so bright.
Phil. Had my Corydon, my Corydon,
Been (alack) her 2 swain:
2 The editions give ‘my.'
Had my lovely one, my lovely one,
Been in Ida plain :
Phil. Cynthia Endymion had refus'd,
Preferring, preferring,
My Corydon to play withal:
The queen of love had been excus'd
Bequeathing, bequeathing,
My Phillida the golden ball.
Phil. Yonder comes my mother, Corydon,
Whither shall I fly?
Under yonder beech my lovely one,
While she passeth by.
Say to her thy true love was not here:
Remember, remember,
To-morrow is another day.
Doubt me not, my true love, do not fear:
Farewell then, farewell then,
Heaven keep our loves alway.
[From Davison's Poetical Rapsody, 1602.]
A FICTION: HOW CUPID MADE A NYMPH WOUND
HERSELF WITH HIS ARROWS.
It chanc'd of late a shepherd's swain,
That went to seek a strayed sheep,
Within a thicket on the plain,
Espied a dainty Nymph asleep.
Her golden hair o'erspread her face,
Her careless arms abroad were cast,
Her quiver had her pillow's place,
Her breast lay bare to every blast.
The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill;
Nought durst he do, nought durst he say,
When chance, or else perhaps his will,
Did guide the God of Love that way.
The crafty boy that sees her sleep,
Whom if she wak'd, he durst not see,
Behind her closely seeks to creep,
Before her nap should ended be.
There come, he steals her shafts away,
And puts his own into their place;
Nor dares he any longer stay,
But ere she wakes, hies thence apace.
Scarce was he gone when she awakes,
And spies the shepherd standing by;
Her bended bow in haste she takes,
And at the simple swain let fly.
Forth flew the shaft and pierc'd his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain;
Yet up again forthwith he start,
And to the Nymph he ran amain.
Amaz'd to see so strange a sight,
She shot, and shot, but all in vain;
The more his wounds, the more his might;
Love yieldeth strength in midst of pain.
Her angry eyes are great with tears,
She blames her hands, she blames her skill;
The bluntness of her shafts she fears,
And try them on herself she will.
Take heed, sweet Nymph, try not thy shaft,
Each little touch will prick the heart;
Alas! thou knowest not Cupid's craft,
Revenge is joy, the end is smart.
Yet try she will, and prick some bare,
Her hands were glov'd, and next to hand
Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,
That made the shepherd senseless stand.
That breast she prick'd, and through that breast
Love finds an entry to her heart;
At feeling of this new-come guest,
Lord, how the gentle Nymph doth start!
She runs not now, she shoots no more;
Away she throws both shafts and bow;
She seeks for that she shunn'd before,
She thinks the shepherd's haste too slow.
Though mountains meet not, lovers may;
So others do, and so do they :
The God of Love sits on a tree,
And laughs that pleasant sight to see.
Anon., but attributed to 'A. W.'
Look how the pale Queen of the silent night
Doth cause the ocean to attend upon her,
And he as long as she is in his sight,
With his full tide is ready her to honour:
But when the silver waggon of the Moon
Is mounted up so high he cannot follow,
The sea calls home his crystal waves to moan,
And with low ebb doth manifest his sorrow;
So you, that are the sovereign of my heart,
Have all my joys attending on your will;
My joys low-ebbing when you do depart,
When you return, their tide my heart doth fill;
So as you come, and as you do depart,
Joys ebb and flow within my tender heart.
Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
And you, my love, as high as heaven above,
Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain
Ascend to heaven in honour of my love.
Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the sun,
And look upon you with ten thousand eyes,
Till heaven waxed blind, and till the world were done.
Wheresoe'er I am, below, or else above you,
Wheresoe'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
F. Sylvester.
A HYMN IN PRAISE OF NEPTUNE.
Of Neptune's empire let us sing,
At whose command the waves obey;
To whom the rivers tribute pay,
Down the high mountains sliding;
To whom the scaly nation yields
Homage for the crystal fields
Wherein they dwell;
And every sea-god pays a gem
Yearly out of his wat'ry cell,
To deck great Neptune's diadem.
The Tritons dancing in a ring,
Before his palace gates do make
The water with their echoes quake,
Like the great thunder sounding :
The sea nymphs chant their accents shrill,
And the Syrens taught to kill
With their sweet voice,
Make every echoing rock reply,
Unto their gentle murmuring noise,
The praise of Neptune's empery.
When to her lute Corinna sings,
Her voice revives the leaden strings,
And doth in highest notes appear
As any challenged echo clear.
But when she doth of mourning speak,
E'en with her sighs the strings do break.
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