And snow bemoisten July's face,
And Winter spring, and Summer mourn,

Before my pen, by help of Fame,
Cease to recite thy sacred name.

(Rosalind.)

Montanus' Praise of his Fair

Phobe

PH@BE sat, sweet she sat,

Sweet sat Phæbe when I saw her :
White her brow, coy her eye, -

Brow and eye, how much you please me !
Words I spent, sighs I sent,-

Sighs and words could never draw her.
Oh, my love, thou art lost,

Since no sight could ever ease thee.
Phoebe sat by a fount,

Sitting by a fount I spied her :
Sweet her touch, rare her voice,

Touch and voice, what may distain' you ?
As she sung, I did sigh,

And by sighs whilst that I tried her,
Oh, mine eyes, you did lose

Her first sight, whose want did pain you.

1

Phoebe's flocks, white as wool,

Yet were Phæbe's looks more whiter ;
Phoebe's eyes dove-like mild,

Dove-like eyes both mild and cruel ;
Montan swears, in your lamps

He will die for to delight her.
Phæbe, yield, or I die ;-
Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel ?

(Rosalind.) 1 Stain, sully.

Rosader's Praise of Rosalind

LIKE to the clear in highest sphere,
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of self-same colour is her hair,
Whether unfolded or in twines :
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear whenas they glow,
And I do tremble when I think :
Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
That beautifies Aurora's face,
Or like the silver crimson shroud

That Phœbus' smiling looks doth grace :
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline !

Her lips are like two budded roses
Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds the balm encloses,
Apt to entice a deity :

Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Her neck, like to a stately tower
Where Love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances every hour
From her divine and sacred eyes:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline !

Her paps are centres of delight,

Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
Where nature moulds the dew of light
To feed perfection with the same :
Heigh ho, would she were mine!

With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,

Her body every way is fed,

Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!

Nature herself her shape admires,
The gods are wounded in her sight;
And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!

Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
The absence of fair Rosaline,
Since for her fair there's fairer none,

Nor for her virtues so divine:

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline !

Heigh ho, my heart, would God that she were mine!

(Rosalind.)

Coridon's Song

A BLITHE and bonny country lass-
Heigh ho, the bonny lass !-
Sat sighing on the tender grass,

And weeping said, "Will none come woo me?" A smicker boy, a lither swain,

Heigh ho, a smicker swain !—

That in his love was wanton fain,

With smiling looks straight came unto her.

Whenas the wanton wench espied,-
Heigh ho, when she espied!-
The means to make herself a bride,
She simpered smooth like bonny-bell.
The swain that saw her squint-eyed kind,—
Heigh ho, squint-eyed kind!—

His arms about her body twined,

And said, "Fair lass, how fare ye? well?”

The country kit said, "Well, forsooth,"-
Heigh ho, well forsooth!-

'But that I have a longing tooth,

A longing tooth that makes me cry." "Alas!" said he, "what gars thy grief?"Heigh ho, what gars thy grief?— "A wound," quoth she, "without relief: I fear a maid that I shall die."

"If that be all," the shepherd said,-
Heigh ho, the shepherd said !—
“I'll make thee wive it, gentle maid,
And so recure thy malady."

Hereon they kissed with many an oath,-
Heigh ho, with many an oath !—

And 'fore god Pan did plight their troth;
So to the church apace they hie.

1 Gay, spruce.

1 Pet.

And God send every pretty peat,1-
Heigh ho, the pretty peat !—
That fears to die of this conceit,
So kind a friend to help at last.
Then maids shall never long again,—
Heigh ho, to long again !—

When they find ease for such a pain :

Thus my roundelay is past.

(Rosalind.2)

Love and Phyllis

LOVE guards the roses of thy lips,
And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach, he forward skips,
And if I kiss, he stingeth me.

Love in thine eyes doth build his bower,
And sleeps within their pretty shine;
And if I look, the boy will lower,

And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.

Love works thy heart within his fire,

And in my tears doth firm the same,
And if I tempt it, will retire,

And of my plaints doth make a game.

Love, let me cull her choicest flowers,
And pity me, and calm her eye;
Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers,
Then will I praise thy deity.

But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her
In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.

(Phyllis.)

2 The concluding four lines are added from England's Helicon from which the arrangement of the last two stanzas is adopted.