Phillida and Corydon.

[From the same.]

In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
Forth I walk'd by the wood side,
When as May was in his pride:
There I spied, all alone,
Phillida and Corydon.

Much ado there was, God wot,
He would love, and she would not:
She said, never man was true;
He said, none was false to you.

He said, he had lov'd her long;
She said, love should have no wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then;

She said, maids must kiss no men,
Till they did for good and all:
Then 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 silly shepherds use

When they will not love abuse;

Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded ;
And Phillida with garlands gay
Was made the lady of the May.

A sweet Pastoral.

[From the same.]

GOOD Muse, rock me asleep
With some sweet harmony!
This weary eye is not to keep
Thy wary company.

Sweet Love, begone a while,
Thou know'st my heaviness!
Beauty is born but to beguile
My heart of happiness.

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 colour leese,
And not a leaf is seen.

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,

Lack herb hath lost her savour;

And Phillida the fair hath lost

The comfort of her favour.

Now all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
That how to hope upon delights
It is but mere deceit.

And therefore, my sweet Muse, That know'st what help is best, Do now thy heavenly cunning use To set my heart at rest!

And in a dream bewray

What fate shall be my friend; Whether my life shall still decay, Or when my sorrow end!

A Quarrel with Love.

[In his "Melancholike Humours," 1600.]

OH that I could write a story
Of Love's dealing with affection!
How he makes the spirit sorry

That is touch'd with his affection!

But he doth so closely wind him
In the plaits of will ill-pleased,
That the heart can never find him
Till it be too much diseased.

"Tis a subtle kind of spirit,

Of a venom-kind of nature,

That can, like a cony-ferret,

Creep un-wares upon a creature.

Never eye that can behold it,

Though it worketh first by seeing;

Nor conceit that can unfold it,

Though in thoughts be all its being.

Oh! it maketh old men witty,

Young men wanton, women idle, While that Patience weeps, for pity Reason bits not Nature's bridle.

What it is, is in conjecture,

Seeking much, but nothing finding;

Like to Fancy's architecture,

With illusions Reason blinding.

Yet, can Beauty so retain it
In the profit of her service,
That she closely can maintain it
For her servant chief in office.

In her eye she chiefly breeds it;
In her cheeks she chiefly hides it;
In her servant's faith she feeds it,
While his only heart abides it.