Whistle whilst your lambs do feed;
Aged woods and floods that know
What hath been long time ago,
Your more serious notes among
Hear how I can, in my song,
Set a nymph's perfection forth:
And when you have heard her worth,
Say if such another lass

Ever known to mortal was.

Listen, lordings, you that most
Of your outward honours boast;
And you gallants that think scorn
We to lowly fortunes born
Should attain to any graces

Where you look for sweet embraces.
See if all those vanities
Whereon your affection lies
Or the titles or the power
By your fathers' virtues your,
Can your mistresses enshrine
In such state, as I will mine,
Who am forced to importune
Favours in despite of fortune.

Beauties, listen; chiefly you That yet know not virtue's due. You that think there are no sports Nor no honours but in courts, Though of thousands there live not Two but die and are forgot: See, if any palace yields

Aught more glorious than the fields,

And consider well if we

May not as high-flying be

In our thoughts as you that sing
In the chambers of a king.
See, if our contented minds,
Whom ambition never blinds,
We that, clad in homespun gray,
On our own sweet meadows play,
Cannot honour if we please
Where we list as well as these,
Or as well of worth approve,
Or equal with passion love.
See, if beauties may not touch
Our soon-loving hearts as much,
Or our services effect

Favours with as true respect

In your good conceits to rise,
As our painted butterflies.

LXXVII. ADMIRE NOT, SHEPHERD'S BOY.

ADMIRE not, shepherd's boy,

Why I my pipe forbear,

My sorrows and my joy

Beyond expression are.
Though others may
In songs display

Their passions while they woo,

Yet mine do fly

A pitch too high

For words to reach unto.

Or passion's store
Learn'd me no more
To feel than others do,
I'd paint my cares

As black as theirs

And teach my lines to woo.

But oh, thrice happy ye

Whose mean conceit is dull!
You from those thoughts are free
That stuff my breast so full:
My love's excess

Lets to express
What songs are used to,
And my delights

Take such high flights

My joys will me undo.

I have a love that's fair,

Rich, wise, and nobly born;

She's true perfection's heir,

Holds nought but vice in scorn.

A heart to find

More chaste, more kind,
Our plains afford no moe;

Of her degree

No blab I'll be,

For doubt some prince should woo.

And yet I dare not fear,

Though she my meanness knows,

The willow branch to wear,

No, nor the yellow hose.

For if great Jove

Should sue for love,

She would not me forgo:
Resort I may

By night or day,

Which braver dare not do.

You gallants born to pelf,

To lands, to title's store, I'm born but to myself, Nor do I care for more. Add to your earth, Wealth, honours, birth, And all you can thereto,

You cannot prove

The height of love
Which I in meanness do.

Great men have helps to gain Those favours they implore, Which though I win with pain, I find my joys the more. Each clown may rise

And climb the skies When he hath found a stair;

But joy to him

That dares to climb

And hath no help but air.

Some say that Love repents
Where fortunes disagree,
I know the high'st contents
From low beginnings be.
My love's unfeign'd
To her that deign'd

From greatness stoop thereto.
She loves 'cause I

So mean dared try
Her better worth to woo.

And yet although much joy
My fortune seems to bless,
'Tis mix'd with more annoy
Than I shall e'er express:
For with much pain
Did I obtain

The gem I'll ne'er forego:

Which yet I dare

Not show, nor wear;

And that breeds all my woe.

But fie, my foolish tongue,

How loosely now it goes!

First let my knell be rung
Ere I do more disclose.

Mount thoughts on high!

Cease words! for why

My meaning to divine

To those I leave

That can conceive
So brave a love as mine.

And now no more I'll sing
Among my fellow swains;
Nor groves nor hills shall ring
With echoes of my plains.
My measures be

Confused, you see,