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Next, lullaby my gazing eyes,

Which wonted were to glance apace; For every glass may now suffice

To show the furrows in my face. With lullaby then wink awhile; With lullaby your looks beguile; Let no fair face, nor beauty bright, Entice you eft with vain delight.

And lullaby my wanton will;

Let reason's rule now rein thy thought; Since all too late I find by skill

How dear I have thy fancies bought; With lullaby now take thine ease, With lullaby thy doubts appease; For trust to this, if thou be still, My body shall obey thy will.

Eke lullaby my loving boy,

My little robin take thy rest;
Since age is cold and nothing coy,
Keep close thy coin, for so is best.
With lullaby be thou content;
With lullaby thy lusts relent.

Let others pay which have more pence;
Thou art too poor for such expense.

Thus lullaby my youth, mine eyes,

My will, my ware, and all that was: I can no more delays devise ;

But welcome pain, let pleasure pass. With lullaby now take your leave, With lullaby your dreams deceive, And when you rise with waking eye, Remember then this lullaby.







Na hill there grows a flower,
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.



WEET Phillis, if a silly swain,
May sue to thee for grace;
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.

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