PHIL. Here are threads, my True Love! fine as silk, To knit thee, to knit thee

A pair of stockings white as milk. COR. 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!
To set in thy cap!

COR. I will gather pears, my lovely one!
To put in thy lap!

PHIL. I will buy my True Love garters gay,
For Sundays! for Sundays!

To wear about his legs so tall.
COR. I will buy my True Love yellow say
For Sundays! for Sundays!

To wear about her middle small.

PHIL. When my CORIDON sits on a hill,
Making melody;

COR.

When my lovely one goes to her wheel,
Singing cheerily ;

PHIL. Sure, methinks, my True Love doth excel
For sweetness! for sweetness!

Our PAN, that old Arcadian Knight! COR. 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
Been, alack! her Swain:

COR. Had my lovely one! my lovely one
Been in Ida plain,

PHIL. CYNTHIA, ENDYMION had refused!
Preferring, preferring

My CORIDON to play withal.
COR. The Queen of Love had been excused;
Bequeathing, bequeathing

My PHILLIDA the golden ball.

PHIL. Yonder comes my mother, CORIDON!
Whither shall I fly?

COR. Under yonder beech, my lovely one!
While she passeth by.

PHIL. Say to her, Thy True Love was not here!
Remember! remember

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,
Display your crimson folds fresh-looking fair,
Whose radiant bright disgraces

The rich adornèd rays of roseate rising Morn:
Ah! if her virgin's hand

Do pluck your pure! ere PHŒBUS 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, Dry up my tears; and dwell within her heart!

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!
Can Women fond be faithful unto any?

When snow-white swans do turn to colour sable,
Then Women fond will be both firm and stable!

Are Women Saints? No Saints; nor yet no Devils!
Are Women good? Not good; but needful evils!
So angel-like, that Devils I do not doubt them!
So needful ills, that few can live without them!

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
Gives ear, till buck be killed;
And little lads, with pipes of corn,
Sat keeping beasts afield;
I went to gather strawberries tho,
By woods and groves full fair;
And parched my face with PHŒbus so,
In walking in the air,

That down I laid me, by a stream,
With boughs all overclad;

And there I met the strangest dream
That ever Shepherd had.

Methought, I saw each Christmas Game,
Each Revel all and some,

And every thing that I can name,
Or may in fancy come.

The substance of the sights I saw,
In silence pass they shall;
Because I lack the skill to draw
The order of them all.

But VENUS shall not pass my pen;
Whose Maidens, in disdain,
Did feed upon the hearts of men,
That CUPID's bow had slain.

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