Cor. Phillida, my true love, is it she? I come then, I come then, I come and keep my flock with thee. Phil. Here are cherries ripe my Corydon, Cor. Phil. Cor. Eat them for my sake. Here's my oaten pipe, my lovely one, Here are threads, my true love, fine as silk, A pair of stockings white as milk. A bonnet to withstand the heat. Phil. I will gather flowers my Corydon, Cor. To set in thy cap. I will gather pears, my lovely one, Phil. I will buy my true love garters gay, Cor. To wear about his legs so tall. To wear about her middle small. Phil. When my Corydon 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. Beyond the nymphs that be so bright. Phil. Had my Corydon, my Corydon, Been (alack) her swain: Thin serge: Fr. saie. • The editions give ‘my.’ Cor. Had my lovely one, my lovely one, Phil. Cynthia Endymion had refus'd, Cor. My Corydon to play withal: My Phillida the golden ball. Phil. Yonder comes my mother, Corydon, Cor. Cor. Whither shall I fly? Under yonder beech my lovely onc, Say to her thy true love was not here: To-morrow is another day. Doubt me not, my true love, do not fear: Heaven keep our loves alway. Ignoto. [From Davison's Poetical Rapsody, 1602.] A FICTION: HOW CUPID MADE A NYMPH WOUL HERSELF WITH HIS ARROWS. It chanc'd of late a shepherd's swain, Her golden hair o'erspread her face, The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill; The crafty boy that sees her sleep, There come, he steals her shafts away, But ere she wakes, hies thence apace. Scarce was he gone when she awakes, Forth flew the sha't and pierc'd his heart, And to the Nymph he ran amain. Amaz'd to see so strange a sight, She shot, and shot, but all in vain ; Her angry eyes are great with tears, She blames her hands, she blames her skill; And try them on herself she will. Take heed, sweet Nymph, try not thy shaft, Yet try she will, and prick some bare, That breast she prick'd, and through that breast At feeling of this new-come guest, Lord, how the gentle Nymph doth start! She runs not now, she shoots no more; Though mountains meet not, lovers may; Anon., but attributed to 'A. W.' A SONNET OF THE MOON. Look how the pale Queen of the silent night SONNET. Charles Best. Were I as base as is the lowly plain, And you, my love, as high as heaven above, Were I as high as heaven above the plain, Wheresoe'er you were, with you my love should go. Were you the earth, dear love, and I the skies, A HYMN IN PRAISE OF NEPTUNE. Of Neptune's empire let us sing, And every sea-god pays a gem The Tritons dancing in a ring, Like the great thunder sounding : The sea nymphs chant their accents shrill, With their sweet voice, Make every echoing rock reply, OF CORINNA'S SINGING. T. Campion When to her lute Corinna sings, But when she doth of mourning speak, E'en with her sighs the strings do break. |