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If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

His flocks are folded, he comes home at night,
As merry as a king in his delight;

And merrier too,

For kings bethink them what the state require,
Where shepherds careless carol by the fire:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat
His cream and curds, as doth the king his meat;
And blither too,

For kings have often fears when they do sup,
Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween,
As is a king in dalliance with a queen;
More wanton too,

For kings have many griefs affects to move,
Where shepherds have no greater grief than love:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound,
As doth the king upon his beds of down;
More sounder too,

For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Thus with his wife he spends the year, as blithe
As doth the king at every tide or sith;

And blither too,

For kings have wars and broils to take in hand,
When shepherds laugh and love upon the land:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

HEXAMETRA ALEXIS IN LAUDEM ROSAMUNDÆ.*

OFT have I heard my lief Coridon report on a love

day,

When bonny maids do meet with the swains in the valley by Tempe,

How bright-eyed his Phillis was, how lovely they glanced,

When fro th' arches ebon-black flew looks as a light

ning,

That set a-fire with piercing flames even hearts adamantine:

Face rose-hued, cherry-red, with a silver taint like a lily:

Venus' pride might abate, might abash with a blush to behold her;

Phoebus' wires compared to her hairs unworthy the praising;

Juno's state and Pallas' wit disgraced with the Graces That graced her, whom poor Coridon did choose for a love-mate.

Ah, but had Coridon now seen the star that Alexis

* Nash humorously describes English hexameters as that drunken, staggering kind of verse, which is all up hill and down hill, like the way betwixt Stamford and Beechfield, and goes like a horse plunging through the mire in the deep of winter, now soused up to the saddle, and straight aloft on his tip-toes.'-Have with You to Saffron-Walden.

Likes and loves so dear, that he melts to sighs when he sees her,

Did Coridon but see those eyes, those amorous eye-lids, From whence fly holy flames of death or life in a moment!

Ah, did he see that face, those hairs that Venus, Apollo Bashed to behold, and, both disgraced, did grieve that a creature

Should exceed in hue, compare both a god and a goddess!

Ah, had he seen my sweet paramour, the taint of Alexis, Then had he said, Phillis, sit down surpassed in all points,

For there is one more fair than thou, beloved of Alexis!

HEXAMETRA ROSAMUNDE IN DOLOREM

AMISSI ALEXIS.

TEMPE, the grove where dark Hecate doth keep her abiding,

Tempe, the grove where poor Rosamond bewails her Alexis,

Let not a tree nor a shrub be green to show thy rejoicing, Let not a leaf once deck thy boughs and branches, O

Tempe!

Let not a bird record her tunes, nor chant any sweet

notes,

But Philomel, let her bewail the loss of her amours, And fill all the wood with doleful tunes to bemoan her: Parched leaves fill every spring, fill every fountain; All the meads in mourning weed fit them to lamenting; Echo sit and sing despair i' the valleys, i' the mountains; All Thessaly help poor Rosamond mournful to bemoan her,

For she's quite bereft of her love, and left of Alexis! Once was she liked and once was she loved of wanton Alexis:

Now is she loathed and now is she left of trothless Alexis.

Here did he clip and kiss Rosamond, and vow by Diana, None so dear to the swain as I, nor none so beloved; Here did he deeply swear and call great Pan for a witness,

That Rosamond was only the rose beloved of Alexis, That Thessaly had not such another nymph to delight

him:

None, quoth he, but Venus' fair shall have any kisses; Not Phillis, were Phillis alive, should have any favours, Nor Galate, Galate so fair for beauteous eyebrows, Nor Doris, that lass that drew the swains to behold her, Not one amongst all these, nor all should gain any graces,

But Rosamond alone, to herself should have her Alexis. Now, to revenge the perjured vows of faithless Alexis, Pan, great Pan, that heard'st his oaths, and mighty Diana,

You Dryades, and watery Nymphs that sport by the fountains,

Fair Tempe, the gladsome grove of greatest Apollo, Shrubs and dales and neighbouring hills, that heard when he swore him,

Witness all, and seek to revenge the wrongs of a virgin!

Had any swain been lief to me but guileful Alexis, Had Rosamond twined myrtle boughs, or rosemary branches,

Sweet hollyhock, or else daffodil, or slips of a bay-tree, And given them for a gift to any swain but Alexis, Well had Alexis done t' have left his rose for a giglot: But Galate ne'er loved more dear her lovely Menalcas, Than Rosamond did dearly love her trothless Alexis; Endymion was ne'er beloved of his Cytherea,

Half so dear as true Rosamond beloved her Alexis. Now, seely lass, hie down to the lake, haste down to the willows,

And with those forsaken twigs go make thee a chaplet;

Mournful sit, and sigh by the springs, by the brooks, by the rivers,

Till thou turn for grief, as did Niobe, to a marble; Melt to tears, pour out thy plaints, let Echo reclaim them,

How Rosamond that loved so dear is left of Alexis. Now die, die, Rosamond! let men engrave o' thy tombstone,

Here lies she that loved so dear the youngster Alexis, Once beloved, forsaken late of faithless Alexis,

Yet Rosamond did die for love, false-hearted Alexis!

PHILADOR'S ODE

THAT HE LEFT WITH THE DESPAIRING LOVER.

WH

HEN merry autumn in her prime,
Fruitful mother of swift time,

Had filled Ceres' lap with store
Of vines and corn, and mickle more
Such needful fruits as do grow
From Terra's bosom here below;
Tityrus did sigh, and see

With heart's grief and eyes' gree,
Eyes and heart both full of woes,
Where Galate his lover goes.
Her mantle was vermilion red;
A gaudy chaplet on her head,
A chaplet that did shroud the beams
That Phoebus on her beauty streams,
For sun itself desired to see
So fair a nymph as was she,
For, viewing from the east to west
Fair Galate did like him best.
Her face was like to welkin's shine;
Crystal brooks such were her eyne,
And yet within those brooks were fires
That scorched youth and his desires.

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