The woods are deck'd with leaves,
And trees are clothed gay;
And Flora, crown'd with sheaves,
With oaken boughs doth play:
Where I am clothed with black,
The token of my wrack.

The birds upon the trees

Do sing with pleasant voices,
And chant in their degrees

Their loves and lucky choices:
When I, whilst they are singing,
With sighs mine arms am wringing.

The thrushes seek the shade,

And I my fatal grave;
Their flight to heaven is made,
My walk on earth I have:
They free, I thrall; they jolly,
I sad and pensive wholly.

XXVIII. A POET'S VOW.

This and the two following poems are from the pastoral romance of Rosalynde, or Euphues Golden Legacy (1590), adapted by Shakespeare in As You Like It.

FIRST shall the heavens want starry light,

The seas be robbed of their waves;

The day want sun, and sun want bright,
The night want shade, the dead men graves;
The April flowers and leaf and tree,
Before I false my faith to thee.

First shall the tops of highest hills
By humble plains be overpried;

.

And poets scorn the Muse's quills,
And fish forsake the water glide;

And Iris lose her colour'd weed,
Before I fail thee at thy need.

First direful hate shall turn to peace,
And love relent in deep disdain ;
And death his fatal stroke shall cease,
And envy pity every pain;

And pleasure mourn, and sorrow smile,
Before I talk of any guile.

First time shall stay his stayless race,
And winter bless his brows with corn;
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.

XXIX. MONTANUS' SONNET.

PHOEBE sat,

Sweet she sat,

Sweet sat Phoebe 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 distain1 you?

As she sang,

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.

A TURTLE sat upon a leafless tree,

Mourning her absent pheer2,
With sad and sorry cheer:
About her wondering stood

1 distain, stain.

2pheer, mate, love.

The citizens of wood,

And whilst her plumes she rents,
And for her love laments,

The stately trees complain them,
The birds with sorrow pain them:
Each one that doth her view,
Her pain and sorrows rue:

But were the sorrows known

That me hath overthrown,

Oh how would Phoebe sigh, if she did look on me?

The lovesick Polypheme that could not see,

Who on the barren shore
His fortunes doth deplore,

And melteth all in moan

For Galatea gone;

And with his piteous cries,

Afflicts both earth and skies,
And to his woe betook,

Doth break both pipe and hook:

For whom complains the morn,

For whom the sea nymphs mourn;

Alas, his pain is naught;

For were my woe but thought,

Oh how would Phoebe sigh, if she did look on me?

Beyond compare my pain:
Yet glad am I,

If gentle Phoebe deign

To see her Montan die.

XXXI. PHILLIS.

This and the two next are from Phillis, honoured with Pastoral Sonnets (1593). No. XXXI was printed in England's Helicon (1600), with the initials S. E. D. It has therefore been ascribed to Sir Edward Dyer, but Lodge's claim is the earlier by seven years.

IY Phillis hath the morning-sun

MY

At first to look upon her;

And Phillis hath morn-waking birds.
Her risings for to honour;

My Phillis hath prime-feather'd flowers
That smile when she treads on them,

And Phillis hath a gallant flock

That leaps since she doth own them:

But Phillis hath so hard a heart

(Alas that she should have it!)

As yields no mercy to desert,

Nor grace to those that crave it.

Sweet sun, when thou look'st on,
Pray her regard my moan;

Sweet birds, when you sing to her,

To yield some pity, woo her;

Sweet flowers, whenas she treads on,
Tell her, her beauty deads one:

And if in life her love she nill agree me,
Pray her, before I die she will come see me.

XXXII. LOVE AND PHILLIS.

OVE guides the roses of thy lips,

Lo

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,