Then will his gentle heart soon yield;
I know him of a noble mind;
Although a lion in the field

A lamb in turn thou shalt him find;

Ask blessing, babe! be not afraid;
His sugared words have me betrayed.
Then mayst thou joy and be right glad
Although in woe I seem to moan;
Thy father is no rascal lad,

A noble youth of blood and bone;

His glancing looks, if once he smile,
Right honest women may beguile.

Come little boy and rock asleep;
Sing lullaby and be thou still;
I that can do nought else but weep
Will sit by thee and wail my fill :

God bless my babe, and lullaby
From this thy father's quality!

Anon.

[From England's Helicon, 1600.]

A PALINODE.

As withereth the primrose by the river,
As fadeth summer's sun from gliding fountains,
As vanisheth the light blown bubble ever,
As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains :
So melts, so vanisheth, so fades, so withers,
The rose, the shine, the bubble and the snow,
Of praise, pomp, glory, joy, which short life gathers,
Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy.
The withered primrose by the mourning river,
The faded summer's sun from weeping fountains,
The light-blown bubble, vanished for ever,
The molten snow upon the naked mountains,
Are emblems that the treasures we uplay,
Soon wither, vanish, fade, and melt away.

For as the snow, whose lawn did overspread
Th' ambitious hills, which giant-like did threat
To pierce the heaven with their aspiring head,
Naked and bare doth leave their craggy seat:
When as the bubble, which did empty fly,
The dalliance of the undiscerned wind,
On whose calm rolling waves it did rely,

Hath shipwreck made, where it did dalliance find:
And when the sunshine which dissolved the snow,
Coloured the bubble with a pleasant vary,
And made the rathe and timely primrose grow,
Swarth clouds withdraw, which longer time do tarry:
O what is praise, pomp, glory, joy, but so

As shine by fountains, bubbles, flowers or snow?
Edmund Bolton.

PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.

In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
Forth I walked by the wood-side,
When as May was in his pride:
There I spied all alone
Phillida and Corydon.

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.

Corydon 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.

Nicholas Breton.

TO COLIN. CLOUT.

Beauty sat bathing by a spring,
Where fairest shades did hide her,
The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,
The cool streams ran beside her.
My wanton thoughts entic'd mine eye
To see what was forbidden :
But better memory said, fie,
So vain desire was chidden
Hey nonnie, nonnie, &c.

Into a slumber then I fell,

When fond imagination

Seemed to see, but could not tell

Her feature or her fashion.

But even as babes in dreams do smile
And sometimes fall a weeping,

So I awaked, as wise this while,
As when I fell a sleeping.

Hey nonnie, nonnie, &c.

Shepherd Tonie.

PHILLIDA'S LOVE-CALL TO HER CORYDON, AND HIS REPLYING

Phil. Corydon, arise my Corydon,

Cor.

Titan shineth clear.

Who is it that calleth Corydon,

Who is it that I hear?

Phil. Phillida thy true love calleth thee,

Arise then, arise then ;

Arise and keep thy flock with me.

Cor.

Phillida, my true love, is it she?

I come then, I come then,

I come and keep my flock with thee.

Phil. Here are cherries ripe my Corydon,
Eat them for my sake.

Cor.

Here's my oaten pipe, my lovely one,
Sport for thee to make.

Phil. Here are threads, my true love, fine as silk,
To knit thee, to knit thee

Cor.

Phil.

Cor.

A pair of stockings white as milk.

Here are reeds, my true love, fine and neat,
To make thee, to make thee

A bonnet to withstand the heat.

I will gather flowers my Corydon,
To set in thy cap.

I will gather pears, my lovely one,
To put in thy lap.

Phil. I will buy my true love garters gay,
For Sundays, for Sundays,

Cor.

To wear about his legs so tall.
I will buy my true love yellow say1,
For Sundays, for Sundays,

To wear about her middle small.

Phil. When my Corydon sits on a hill

Cor.

Making melody:

When my lovely one goes to her wheel,
Singing cheerily.

Phil. Sure methinks my true love doth excel
For sweetness, for sweetness,

Cor.

Our Pan that old Arcadian knight.
And methinks my true love bears the bell
For clearness, for clearness,

Beyond the nymphs that be so bright.

Phil. Had my Corydon, my Corydon,

Been (alack) her2 swain:

Thin serge: Fr. saie.

* The editions give 'my.'

Cor.

Had my lovely one, my lovely one,
Been in Ida plain :

Phil. Cynthia Endymion had refus'd,
Preferring, preferring,

Cor.

My Corydon to play withal:
The queen of love had been excus'd
Bequeathing, bequeathing,

My Phillida the golden ball.

Phil. Yonder comes my mother, Corydon,

Cor.

Phil.

Cor.

Whither shall I fly?

Under yonder beech my lovely onc,
While she passeth by.

Say to her thy true love was not here:
Remember, remember,

To-morrow is another day.

Doubt me not, my true love, do not fear :
Farewell then, farewell then,

Heaven keep our loves alway.

Ignoto.

[From Davison's Poetical Rapsody, 1602.]

A FICTION: HOW CUPID MADE A NYMPH WOUND
HERSELF WITH HIS ARROWS.

It chanc'd of late a shepherd's swain,
That went to seek a strayed sheep,
Within a thicket on the plain,
Espied a dainty Nymph asleep.

Her golden hair o'erspread her face,
Her careless arms abroad were cast,
Her quiver had her pillow's place,
Her breast lay bare to every blast.

The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill;
Nought durst he do, nought durst he say,
When chance, or else perhaps his will,
Did guide the God of Love that way.