ASTROPHELL, HIS SONG OF PHILLIDA AND CORIDON. By the same. FAIR in a morn, O fairest Morn! Was never morn so fair; There shone a sun, though not the sun, That shineth in the air. For the earth, and from the earth, Was never such a creature; Did come this face; was never face, That carried such a feature. Was never hill so blessed, There stood a man, was never man This man beheld a heavenly view, Which did such virtue give: As clears the blind, and helps the lame, This man had hap, O happy man! That none had hap to see. This silly swain, and silly swains Are men of meanest grace; Had yet the grace, O gracious guest! To hap on such a face. He pity cried, and Pity came; And pitied so his pain; As dying, would not let him die, But gave him life again. For joy whereof he made such mirth, As all the woods did ring: And Pan with all his swains came out But such a song sung never was, Of Phillida the Shepherd's Queen, And Coridon the swain. Fair Phillis is the Shepherd's Queen, Was never such a queen as she; And Coridon her only swain, Was never such a swain as he. Fair Phillis hath the fairest face, That ever yet the earth did yield; And Coridon the kindest swain, That ever yet kept lambs in field. Sweet Philomel is Phillis' bird, Though Coridon be he that caught her: And Coridon doth hear her sing, Though Phillida be she that taught her. Poor Coridon doth keep the fields, Though Phillida be she that owes them: And Phillida doth walk the meads, Though Coridon be he that mows them. The little lambs are Phillis' love, Though Coridon is he that feeds them: The gardens fair are Phillis' ground, Though Coridon is he that weeds them. Since then that Phillis only is The only Shepherd's only Queen: And Coridon the only swain, That only hath a Shepherd been: Though Phillis keep her bower of state, No, Shepherd, no, work out the week, And Sunday shall be holy-day. CORIDON'S SUPPLICATION TO PHILLIS. By the same. SWEET Phillis, if a silly swain May sue to thee for grace, See not thy loving shepherd slain, 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, But if thy beauty make thee proud, The heavens have never yet allow'd That Love should be disdain'd. Then lest the fates that favour Love A SHEPHERD'S DREAM. By the same. A SILLY Shepherd lately sate Among a flock of sheep: Where musing long on this and that, At last he fell asleep. And in the slumber as he lay, He gave a piteous groan: He thought his sheep were run away; And he was left alone. He whoopt, he whistled, and he call'd; But not a sheep came near him: |