And give them for a gift to any swain but Alexis:
Well had Alexis done t' have left his rose for a giglet.
But Galate ne'er lov'd more dear her lovely Menalcas,
Than Rosamond did dearly love her trothless Alexis.
Endymion was ne'er belov'd of his Citherea,

Half so dear as true Rosamond belov'd her Alexis.
Now seely lass, hie down to the lake, haste down to the

willows;

And with those forsaken twigs go make thee a chaplet, Mournful sit, and sigh by the springs, by the brooks, by

the rivers,

Till thou turn for grief, as did Niobe to a marble;

Melt to tears, pour out thy plaints, let Echo reclaim them,
How Rosamond that loved so dear is left of Alexis,
Now die, die Rosamond, let men engrave o' thy tomb-stone:
Here she lies that loved so dear the youngster Alexis,

Once beloved, forsaken late of faithless Alexis:
Yet Rosamond did die for love, false hearted Alexis.

PHILADOR'S ODE THAT HE LEFT WITH

THE DESPAIRING LOVER.

From the same.

WHEN merry Autumn in her prime,
Fruitful mother of swift Time,

Had fill'd Ceres' lap with store

Of vines and corn, and mickle more,
Such needful fruits as do grow

From Terra's bosom here below;
Tityrus did sigh and see

With heart's grief and eyes gree;
Eyes and heart both full of woes,
Where Galate his lover goes;
Her mantle was vermillion red,
A gaudy chaplet on her head;

A chaplet that did shroud the beams,
That Phoebus on her beauty streams:
For sun itself desir'd to see

So fair a nymph as was she;

For, viewing from the East to West, Fair Galate did like him best:

Her face was like to Welkin's shine; Crystal brooks, such were his eyne; And yet within those brooks were fires, That scorched youth and his desires.

Galate did much impair

Venus' honour for her fair:

For stately stepping Juno's pace,

By Galate did take disgrace;

And Pallas' wisdom bear no prize,

Where Galate would shew her wise.

This gallant girl thus passeth by

Where Tityrus did sighing lie:
Sighing sore for Love strains

More than sighs from Lover's veins,
Tears in eye, thought in heart,
Thus his grief he did impart.
Fair Galate but glance thine eye;

Here lies he that here must die:

For Love is death, if Love not gain,

Lover's salve for Lover's pain.

Winters seven and more are past,

Since on thy face my thoughts I cast:
When Galate did haunt the plains,
And feed her sheep amongst the swains:
When every shepherd left his flocks,
To gaze on Galate's fair locks.

When every eye did stand at gaze,

When heart and thought did both amaze:

When heart from body would asunder,

On Galate's fair face to wonder:

Then amongst them all did I

Catch such a wound as I must die:

If Galate oft say not thus,

I love the shepherd Tityrus.

'Tis Love, fair Nymph, that doth pain

Tityrus thy truest swain;

True, for none more true can be,

Then still to love, and none but thee.
Say Galate, oft smile and say,

"Twere pity Love should have a nay:
But such a word of comfort give,
And Tityrus thy Love shall live:

Or with a piercing frown reply,

I cannot live, and then I die,

For Lover's nay, is Lover's death!

And heart-break frowns doth stop the breath.

Galate at this arose,

And with a smile away she goes,

As one that little car'd to ease

Tityrus, pain'd with Love's disease.

At her parting, Tityrus

Sighed amain, and said thus:

"O that women are so fair,

To trap mens' eyes in their hair,

With beauteous eyes, Love's fires,

Venus' sparks that heats desires:

But, oh! that women have such hearts,

Such thoughts, and such deep piercing darts,

As in the beauty of their eye,

Harbour nought but flattery:

Their tears are drawn that drop deceit,

Their faces calends of all sleight,

Their smiles are lures, their looks guile,

And all their love is but a wile!
Then Tityr leave, leave Tityrus
To love such as scorns you thus:
And say to Love, and women both,
What I liked, now I do loath."

With that he hied him to the flocks,

And counted Love but Venus' mocks.

THE SONG OF A COUNTRY SWAIN AT THE

RETURN OF PHILADOR.

From the same.

THE silent shade had shadowed every tree,

And Phoebus in the west was shrouded low:
Each hive had home her busy labouring bee,
Each bird the harbour of the night did know;
Even then,

When thus,

All things did from their weary labour lin,

Menalcas sate and thought him of his sin.