PHIL. Here are threads, my True Love! fine as silk, COR. 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 CORIDON! COR. I will gather pears, my lovely one! PHIL. I will buy my True Love garters gay, To wear about his legs so tall. To wear about her middle small. PHIL. When my CORIDON sits on a hill, COR. Making melody; When my lovely one goes to her wheel, PHIL. Sure, methinks, my True Love doth excel COR. 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 CORIDON! my CORIDON PHIL. CYNTHIA, ENDYMION had refused! My CORIDON to play withal. COR. The Queen of Love had been excused; My PHILLIDA the golden ball, PHIL. Yonder comes my mother, CORIDON! COR. Under yonder beech, my lovely one! PHIL. Say to her, Thy True Love was not here! To-morrow is another day! COR. Doubt me not, my True Love! do not fear! Farewell then! farewell then! Heaven keep our loves alway! SWEET Violets! Love's Paradise! that spread Your gracious odours (which you couchèd bear Within your paly faces) Upon the gentle wing of some calm-breathing wind That plays upon the plain; If, by the favour of propitious stars, you gain Such grace, as in my Lady's bosom place to find: Be proud to touch those places! And when her warmth, your moisture forth doth wear, Whereby her dainty parts are sweetly fed, Your Honours of the flowery meads, I pray! You pretty Daughters of the Earth and Sun! With mild and seemly breathing, straight display My bitter sighs! that have my heart undone. Vermilion Roses! that, with new day's rise, The rich adornèd rays of roseate rising Morn: Do pluck your pure! ere РHŒBUS view the land, And vail your gracious pomp, in lovely Nature's scorn; If chance, my Mistress traces Fast by your flowers, to take the summer's air; Then, woeful blushing, tempt her glorious eyes To spread their tears, ADONIS' death reporting, And tell Love's torments, sorrowing for her friend; Whose drops of blood, within her leaves consorting, Report fair VENUS' moans withouten end! Then may remorse, in pitying of my smart, AN INVECTIVE AGAINST WOMEN. ARE Women fair? I [Aye] wondrous fair to see to! Are Women sweet? Yea, passing sweet they be too! Most fair and sweet to them that inly love them; Chaste and discreet to all, save those that prove them. Are Women wise? Not wise; but they be witty! Are Women witty? Yea; the more the pity! They are so witty, and in wit so wily, That, be ye ne'er so wise, they will beguile ye! Are Women fools? Not fools; but fondlings many! When snow-white swans do turn to colour sable, Are Women Saints? No Saints; nor yet no Devils! Are Women proud? I [Aye] passing proud, and [if you] praise them! Are Women kind? I [Aye] wondrous kind, and [if you] please them! Or so imperious, no man can endure them; Or so kind-hearted, any may procure them! THE SHEPHERD'S SLUMBER. IN peascod time, when hound to horn That down I laid me, by a stream, Methought, I saw each Christmas Game, And every thing that I can name, The order of them all. But VENUS shall not pass my pen; That CUPID's bow had slain. |