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And who had mark'd the pretty looks that past
From privy friend unto his pretty mouse, Would say with me, at twelve o'clock at night, It was a parting, trust me, worth the sight.
But let them part, and pass in God his name !
God speed them well, I pray, and me no worse! Some are gone home with dancing almost lame;
And some go light by means of empty purse: And, to be short, home goeth every one, And home go I unto my lodge alone.
A PASTORAL OF PHILLIS AND CORYDON.
[From England's Helicon.]
On a hill there grows a flower,
Fair befal the dainty sweet!
Where the heavenly muses meet.
In that bow'r there is a chair,
Fringed all about with gold,
That ever eye
It is Phillis, fair and bright,
She that is the shepherd's joy, She that Venus did despite,
And did blind her little boy.
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?
O fair eyes, yet let me see
One good look, and I am gone : Look on me, for I am he,
The 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.
PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.
[From the same.]
In the merry
month of may, In a morn by break of day, With a troop of damsels playing, Forth I yode, forsooth, a maying, When anon, by a wood side, Where that May was in his pride, I espied, all alone, Phillida and Corydon, Much ado there was, God wot, He would love, and she would not; She said, never man was true; He says, none was false to you. He said, he had lov'd her long; She says,
love should have no wrong. Corydon would kiss her then; She says,
maids must kiss no men,
Such as seely shepherds use
THE SHEPHERD'S ADDRESS TO HIS MUSE.
[From the same.]
Good muse, rock me asleep
With some sweet harmony: This weary eye is not to keep
Thy wary company.
Sweet love, begone a while,
Thou seest my heaviness : Beauty is born but to beguile
My heart of happiness.
See how my little flock,
That lov’d to feed on high,
And in the valley die.
The bushes and the trees,
That were so fresh and green, Do all their dainty colours leese,
And not a leaf is seen.
'The black-bird and the thrush,
That made the woods to ring, With all the rest, are now at hush,
And not a note they sing.
Sweet Philomel, the bird
That hath the heavenly throat, Doth now, alas! not once afford
Recording of a note.
The flowers have had a frost,
The herbs have lost their savour; And Phillida the fair hath lost
For me her wonted favour.
Thus all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
It is but mere deceit.
And therefore, my sweet muse,
That know'st what help is best,