VII.

NICHOLAS BRETON,

1542-1626?

A PASTORAL OF PHILLIS AND CORYDON.

Na hill there grows a flower,

ON

Fair befall the dainty sweet;
By that flower there is a bower,
Where the heavenly Muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair,

Fringed all about with gold;
Where doth sit the fairest fair
That ever eye did yet behold.

It is Phillis fair and bright,

She that is the shepherd's joy;
She that Venus did despite,
And did blind her little boy.

This is she, the wise, the rich,

That the world desires to see;

This is ipsa quæ the which,

There is none but only she.

Who would not this face admire?

Who would not this saint adore?
Who would not this sight desire,

Though he thought to see no more?

Oh fair eyes, yet let me see,

One good look, and I am gone;
Look on me, for I am he,

Thy poor silly Corydon.

Thou that art the shepherd's queen,
Look upon thy silly swain ;

By thy comfort have been seen
Dead men brought to life again.

See not thy loving shepherd slain,

With looking on thy face.

But think what power thou hast got,

Upon my flock and me;

Thou seest they now regard me not,
But all do follow thee.

And if I have so far presum'd,
With prying in thine eyes;
Yet let not comfort be consum'd,
That in thy pity lies.

But as thou art that Phillis fair,
That Fortune favour gives;
So let not Love die in despair,
That in thy favour lives.

The deer do browse upon the brier,
The birds do pick the cherries;
And will not Beauty grant Desire
One handful of her berries?
If it be so that thou hast sworn

That none shall look on thee;
Yet let me know thou dost not scorn
To cast a look on me.

But if thy beauty make thee proud,
Think then what is ordain'd;
The heavens have never yet allow'd
That Love should be disdain'd.
Then lest the fates that favour Love,

Should curse thee for unkind;

Let me report for thy behoof,
The honour of thy mind;
Let Corydon with full consent,
Set down what he hath seen;
That Phillida with Love's content,

Is sworn the Shepherd's Queen.

IX.

IN

OLDEN LOVE-MAKING.

N time of yore when shepherds dwelt
Upon the mountain rocks;

And simple people never felt

The pain of lovers' mocks ;
But little birds would carry tales
"Twixt Susan and her sweeting;

And all the dainty nightingales

Did sing at lovers' meeting;
Then might you see what looks did pass
Where shepherds did assemble;
And where the life of true love was,
When hearts could not dissemble.

Then yea and nay was thought an oath
That was not to be doubted;

And when it came to faith and troth
We were not to be flouted.

Then did they talk of curds and cream,
Of butter, cheese, and milk;

There was no speech of sunny beam
Nor of the golden silk.

C

Then for a gift a row of pins,

A purse, a pair of knives ; Was all the way that love begins, And so the shepherd wives.

But now we have so much ado,
And are so sore aggrieved;
That when we go about to woo

We cannot be believed.

Such choice of jewels, rings and chains That may but favour move;

And such intolerable pains

Ere one can hit on love.

That if I still shall bide this life

'Twixt love and deadly hate I will go learn the country life,

Or leave the lover's state.

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