Passeth fair Venus in her brightest hue,
And Juno, in the shew of majesty;

(For she's Samela,)

Pallas in wit: all three if you well view,

For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity,
Yield to Samela.

PHILLIDA AND CORIDON.

By Nicholas Breton.

In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
Forth I walk'd by the wood-side,

When as May was in his pride:

There I spyed, all alone,

Phillida and Coridon.

Much-ado there was, God wot;

He would love and she would not.
She said, "Never man was true:"
He said, "None was false to you:"

He said, "He had lov'd her long:"

She said, "Love should have no wrong."

Coridon would kiss her then;

She said, "Maids must kiss no men,

Till they did for good and all:"
Then she made the shepherd call

All the heavens to witness truth:
Never lov'd a truer youth.

Thus with many a pretty oath,
Yea and nay, and faith and troth,
Such as silly shepherds use

When they will not Love abuse,
Love which had been long deluded:

Was with kisses sweet concluded.
And Phillida with garlands gay
Was made the lady of the May.

A PASTORAL OF PHILLIS AND CORIDON.

By the same.

On a hill there grows a flower,

Fair befall the dainty sweet:

By that flower there is a bower,
Where the heavenly Muses meet.

It is Phillis fair and bright,

She that is the shepherd's joy: She that Venus did despight,

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 Coridon.

Thou, that art the shepherd's queen,

Look upon thy silly swain:

By thy comfort have been seen

Dead men brought to life again!

A SWEET PASTORAL.

By the same.

GOOD Muse rock me a-sleep

With some sweet harmony:

The weary eye is not to keep

Thy wary company.

Sweet Love be gone a while,
Thou knowest my heaviness;
Beauty is born but to beguile

My heart of happiness.

See how my little flock,

That lov'd to feed on high,

Do headlong tumble down the rock, And in the valley die.

With all the rest that 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,

Each herb hath lost her savour:

And Phillida the fair hath lost

The comfort of her favour.

Now all these careful sights'
So kill me in conceit,
That how to hope upon delights,

It is but mere deceit.

And therefore, my sweet Muse,
Thou know'st what help is best:
Do now thy heavenly cunning use,

To set my heart at rest.

And in a dream bewray

What fate shall be my friend: Whether my life shall still decay,

Or when my sorrow end.