Sweete Love, begone a while, See how my little flocke, That lovde to feede on highe, Doe headlonge tumble downe the rocke, The bushes and the trees, That were so freshe and greene, Doe all their daintie colors leese, And not a leafe is seene. The blacke bird and the thrushe, Swete Philomele, the birde That hath the heavenly throte, Doth nowe, alas! not once afforde Recordinge of a note. The flowers have had a frost, The herbes have lost their savoure; And Phillada the faire hath lost For me her wonted favour. Thus all these careful sights And therefore my sweete muse, Doe nowe thy heavenlie cunning use To sett my harte at rest. And in a dream bewraie What fate shall be my friende; Whether my life shall still decaye, Or when my sorrowes ende. NICHOLAS BRETON, about 1570. PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.* In the merrie moneth of Maye, In a morne by break of daye, Where anon by a wood side, Phillida and Corydon. Much adoe there was, God wot; He sayde hee had lovde her longe : She sayes maids must kisse no men, Tyll they doe for good and all. When she made the shepperde call All the heavens to wytnes truthe, Then with many a prettie othe, Yea, and naye, and faithe and trothe; Such as seelie shepperdes use When they will not love abuse; "The Honorable Entertainement given to the Queenes Majestie (Queen Elizabeth) in Progresse at Elvetham, in Hampshire, by the R. H. the Earle of Hertford, 1591: "On Wednesday morning, about 9 o'clock, as her Majestie opened a casement of her gallerie window, ther were three excellent musitians, who, being disguised in auncient country attire, did greete her with a pleasant song of Corydon and Phillida, made in three parts, of purpose. The song, as well for the worth of the dittie, as the aptnesse of the note thereto applied, it pleased her Highnesse after it had been once sung, to command it againe, and highly to grace it with her cheerefull acceptaunce and commendation." Love that had bene long deluded N. BRETON. SHEARING TIME. FROM "THE FLEECE." If verdant elder spreads Her silver flowers; if humble daisies yield Of a clear river; gently drive the flock, And plunge them one by one into the flood. Plunged in the flood, not long the struggler sinks, The sturdy rustic, in the middle wave Awaits to seize him rising; one arm bears His lifted head above the limpid stream, While the full, clammy fleece the other laves Around, laborious with repeated toil, And then resigns him to the sunny bank, Where, bleating loud, he shakes his dripping locks. Now to the other hemisphere, my muse! A new world found, extend thy daring wing. Happy the voyage o'er the Atlantic brine, No land gives more employment for the loom, |