Spring it was, and here did spring
All that nature forth can bring.
Groves of pleasant trees there grow,
Which fruit and shadow could bestow:
Thick-leaved boughs small birds cover,
Till sweet notes themselves discover;
Tunes for number seemed confounded,
Whilst their mixtures music sounded,
'Greeing well, yet not agreed
That one the other should exceed.
A sweet stream here silent glides,
Whose clear water no fish hides;
Slow it runs, which well bewrayed
The pleasant shore the current stayed.
In this stream a rock was planted,
Where no art nor nature wanted.
Each thing so did other grace,
As all places may give place;
Only this the place of pleasure,
Where is heapèd nature's treasure.
Here mine eyes with wonder stayed,
Eyes amazed, and mind afraid,
Ravished with what was beheld,
From departing were withheld.
Musing then with sound advice
On this earthly paradise;
Sitting by the river side,
Lovely Phillis was descried.
Gold her hair, bright her eyne,
Like to Phoebus in his shine;
White her brow, her face was fair;
Amber breath perfumed the air;
Rose and lily both did seek
To show their glories on her cheek;
Love did nestle in her looks,
Baiting there his sharpest hooks.
Such a Phillis ne'er was seen,
More beautiful than love's queen:
Doubt it was, whose greater grace,
Phillis' beauty, or the place.
Her coat was of scarlet red,
All in pleats; a mantle spread,
Fringed with gold; a wreath of boughs,
To check the sun from her brows;
In her hand a shepherd's hook,
In her face Diana's look.
Her sheep grazèd on the plains;
She had stolen from the swains;
Under a cool silent shade,
By the streams she garlands made:
Thus sat Phillis all alone.
Missed she was by Coridon,
Chiefest swain of all the rest;
Lovely Phillis liked him best.
His face was like Phœbus' love;
His neck white as Venus' dove;
A ruddy cheek, filled with smiles,
Such Love hath when he beguiles;
His locks brown, his eyes were gray,
Like Titan in a summer day:
A russet jacket, sleeves red;
A blue bonnet on his head;
A cloak of gray fenced the rain;
Thus 'tirèd was this lovely swain;
A shepherd's hook, his dog, tied
Bag and bottle by his side:
Such was Paris, shepherds say,
When with Enone he did play.
From his flock strayed Coridon
Spying Phillis all alone;
By the stream he Phillis spied,
Braver than was Flora's pride.
Down the valley 'gan he track,
Stole behind his true love's back;
The sun shone, and shadow made,
Phillis rose and was afraid;
When she saw her lover there,
Smile she did, and left her fear.
Cupid, that disdain doth loathe,
With desire strake them both.
The swain did woo; she was nice,
Following fashion, nayed him twice:
Much ado, he kissed her then;
Maidens blush when they kiss men;
So did Phillis at that stowre;
Her face was like the rose flower.
Last they 'greed, for love would so,
'Faith and troth they would no mo;
For shepherds ever held it sin,
To false the love they lived in.
The swain gave a girdle red;
She set garlands on his head:
Gifts were given; they kiss again;
Both did smile, for both were fain.
Thus was love 'mongst shepherds sold,
When fancy knew not what was gold:
They wooed and vowed, and that they keep,
And go contented to their sheep.
PHILOMELA'S ODE THAT SHE SUNG IN HER ARBOUR.
SITTING by a river's side,
Where a silent stream did glide,
Muse I did of many things,
That the mind in quiet brings.
* Philomela, the Lady Fitzwater's Nightingale. By Robert Greene Utriusque Academiæ in Artibus Magister. Sero sed serio. 1592.
I 'gan think how some men deem
Gold their god; and some esteem
Honour is the chief content,
That to man in life is lent.
And some others do contend,
Quiet none, like to a friend.
Others hold, there is no wealth
Compared to a perfect health.
Some man's mind in quiet stands,
When he is lord of many lands:
But I did sigh, and said all this
Was but a shade of perfect bliss;
And in my thoughts I did approve,
Nought so sweet as is true love.
Love 'twixt lovers passeth these,
When mouth kisseth and heart 'grees,
With folded arms and lips meeting,
Each soul another sweetly greeting;
For by the breath the soul fleeteth,
And soul with soul in kissing meeteth.
If love be so sweet a thing,
That such happy bliss doth bring,
Happy is love's sugared thrall,
But unhappy maidens all,
Who esteem your virgin blisses
Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses.
No such quiet to the mind,
As true love with kisses kind:
But if a kiss prove unchaste,
Then is true love quite disgraced.
Though love be sweet, learn this of me,
No sweet love but honesty.
T was frosty winter season,
And fair Flora's wealth was geason.
Meads that erst with green were spread,
With choice flowers diap'red,
Had tawny veils; cold had scanted
What the springs and nature planted.
Leafless boughs there might you see,
All except fair Daphne's tree:
On their twigs no birds perched;
Warmer coverts now they searched;
And by nature's secret reason,
Framed their voices to the season,
With their feeble tunes bewraying,
How they grieved the spring's decaying.
Frosty winter thus had gloomed
Each fair thing that summer bloomed;
Fields were bare, and trees unclad,
Flowers withered, birds were sad
When I saw a shepherd fold
Sheep in cote, to shun the cold.
Himself sitting on the grass,
That with frost withered was,
Sighing deeply, thus 'gan say:
Love is folly when astray:
Like to love no passion such,
For 'tis madness, if too much;
If too little, then despair;
If too high, he beats the air
With bootless cries; if too low,
An eagle matcheth with a crow:
Thence grow jars. Thus I find,
Love is folly, if unkind;
Yet do men most desire
To be heated with this fire,
Whose flame is so pleasing hot,
That they burn, yet feel it not.
Yet hath love another kind,
Worse than these unto the mind;
That is, when a wanton's eye
Leads desire clean awry,
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