And who had mark'd the pretty looks that past From privy friend unto his pretty mouse, Would say with me, at twelve o'clock at night, It was a parting, trust me, worth the sight. But let them part, and pass in God his name! God speed them well, I pray, and me no worse! Some are gone home with dancing almost lame; And some go light by means of empty purse: And, to be short, home goeth every one, And home go I unto my lodge alone. A PASTORAL OF PHILLIS AND CORYDON. [From England's Helicon.] On a hill there grows a flower, In that bow'r there is a chair, That ever eye did yet behold. It is Phillis, fair and bright, And did blind her little boy. Who would not this face admire ? O fair eyes, yet let me see One good look, and I am gone: Look on me, for I am he, The poor silly Corydon. Thou, that art the shepherd's queen, Look upon thy silly swain; By thy comfort have been seen Dead men brought to life again. PHILLIDA AND CORYDON. [From the same.] In the merry month of may, Phillida and Corydon, Much ado there was, God wot, He would love, and she would not; She said, never man was true; He says, none was false to you. He said, he had lov'd her long; She says, love should have no wrong. Corydon would kiss her then; She says, maids must kiss no men, Till they do for good and all; When she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth Never lov'd a truer youth; Then with many a pretty oath, Yea and nay, and faith and troth, Such as seely shepherds use THE SHEPHERD'S ADDRESS TO HIS MUSE. [From the same.] GOOD muse, rock me asleep With some sweet harmony: This weary eye is not to keep Sweet love, begone a while, Beauty is born but to beguile See how my little flock, That lov'd to feed on high, Do headlong tumble down the rock, And in the valley die. The bushes and the trees, That were so fresh and green, Do all their dainty colours leese, The black-bird and the thrush, That made the woods to ring, With all the rest, are now at hush, And not a note they sing. Sweet Philomel, the bird That hath the heavenly throat, Doth now, alas! not once afford Recording of a note. The flowers have had a frost, The herbs have lost their savour; And Phillida the fair hath lost For me her wonted favour. Thus all these careful sights And therefore, my sweet muse, That know'st what help is best, |