Flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs back peeping

All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
All our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sport from us is fled,
All our love is lost, for love is dead.
Farewell, sweet lass,8

Thy like ne'er was

For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan: Poor Coridon

Must live alone,

Other help for him I see that there is none.


Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame,

And stall'd the deer that thou should'st strike,
Let reason rule things worthy blame,

As well as partial fancy 10 like: 11

Take counsel of some wiser head,
Neither too young, nor yet unwed.

And when thou com'st thy tale to tell,
Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk,


8 lass] The reading in Weelkes's Madrigals: old copy. "love."

10 fancy] i. e. love.

11 Corrected by a manuscript of the time.

9 moan] The reading in England's Helicon: old copy, "woe."

Lest she some subtle practice smell; (A cripple soon can find a halt :)

But plainly say thou lov'st her well,
And set thy person forth to sell.

What though her frowning brows be bent,
Her cloudy looks will calm ere night;
And then too late she will repent,
That thus dissembled her delight;

And twice desire, ere it be day,

What though she strive to try her strength,
And ban and brawl, and say thee nay,
Her feeble force will yield at length,
When craft hath taught her thus to say:
"Had women been so strong as men,
In faith you had not had it then."

And to her will frame all thy ways;
Spare not to spend, and chiefly there
Where thy desert may merit praise,
By ringing in thy lady's ear:

The strongest castle, tower, and town,
The golden bullet beats it down.

Serve always with assured trust,
And in thy suit be humble, true;
Unless thy lady prove unjust,
Press never thou to choose anew:

When time shall serve, be thou not slack
To proffer, though she put thee back.

The wiles and guiles that women work,
Dissembled with an outward show,
The tricks and toys that in them lurk,
The cock that treads them shall not know.

Have you not heard it said full oft,
A woman's nay doth stand for nought?

18 Think women still to strive with men,
To sin, and never for to saint:
There is no heaven, by holy then,
When time with age shall them attaint.
Were kisses all the joys in bed,
One woman would another wed.

But soft; enough, too much I fear,
Lest that my mistress hear my song;
She'll not stick to round me i'th' ear,
To teach my tongue to be so long:

Yet will she blush, here be it said,
To hear her secrets so bewray'd.

18 Think women, &c.] These four lines are scarcely intelli gible: in a MS. copy of the poem, belonging to S. Lysons, Esq. they stand thus:

"Think women love to match with men,
And not to live so like a saint:

Here is no heaven; they holy then
Begin, when age doth them attaint."


As it fell upon a day,1
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring;
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity:
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry,
Teru, Teru, by and by:
That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain ;
For her griefs so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain;
None take pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee.
King Pandion, he is dead;

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:

14 This and the next piece were in all probability written by Richard Barnefield, as they are found in a collection of his Poems printed in 1598. The Passionate Pilgrim was first published in the following year.

All thy fellow birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing.
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.

Whilst as fickle fortune smil'd,
Thou and I were both beguil❜d.
Every one that flatters thee,
Is no friend in misery.
Words are easy like the wind;
Faithful friends are hard to find.
Every man will be thy friend,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call:
And with such like flattering,
"Pity but he were a king."
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,
They have him at commandement;
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown:
They that fawn'd on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need,
If thou sorrow, he will weep;

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