Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton,Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William B | Page 7

that Phyllis only
is
The only shepherd's only queen;
And Corydon the only swain

That only hath her shepherd been,--
Though Phyllis keep her bower
of state,
Shall Corydon consume away?
No, shepherd, no, work out
the week,
And Sunday shall be holiday.
A Pastoral of Phyllis and Corydon
On a hill there grows a flower,
Fair befall the dainty sweet!

By that
flower there is a bower,
Where the heavenly Muses meet.
In that bower there is a chair,
Fringèd all about with gold,
Where
doth sit the fairest fair
That did ever eye behold.
It is Phyllis, fair and bright,
She that is the shepherds' joy,
She that
Venus did despite,
And did blind her little boy.
This is she, the wise, the rich,
That the world desires to see:
This is

_ipsa quæ_, the which
There is none but only she.
Who would not this face admire?
Who would not this saint adore?

Who would not this sight desire,
Though he thought to see no more?
O, fair eyes, yet let me see,
One good look, and I am gone:
Look on
me, for I am he,
Thy poor silly Corydon.
Thou that art the shepherds' queen,
Look upon thy silly swain;
By
thy comfort have been seen
Dead men brought to life again.
Corydon's Supplication to Phyllis
Sweet Phyllis, if a silly swain
May sue to thee for grace,
See not thy
loving shepherd slain
With looking on thy face;
But think what
power thou hast got
Upon my flock and me;
Thou seest they now
regard me not,
But all do follow thee.
And if I have so far presumed,

With prying in thine eyes,
Yet let not comfort be consumed
That
in thy pity lies;
But as thou art that Phyllis fair,
That fortune favour
gives,
So let not love die in despair
That in thy favour lives.
The
deer do browse upon the briar,
The birds do pick the cherries;
And
will not Beauty grant Desire
One handful of her berries?
If it be so
that thou hast sworn
That none shall look on thee,
Yet let me know
thou dost not scorn
To cast a look on me.
But if thy beauty make
thee proud,
Think then what is ordain'd;
The heavens have never
yet allow'd
That love should be disdain'd.
Then lest the fates that
favour love
Should curse thee for unkind,
Let me report for thy
behoof,

The honour of thy mind;
Let Corydon with full consent

Set down what he hath seen,
That Phyllida with Love's content
Is
sworn the shepherds' queen.
A Report Song in a Dream,
between a shepherd and
his nymph
Shall we go dance the hay? _The hay?_
Never pipe could ever play

Better shepherd's roundelay.

Shall we go sing the song? _The song?_
Never Love did ever wrong.

Fair maids, hold hands all along.
Shall we go learn to woo? _To woo?_
Never thought came ever
to[o](?)
Better deed could better do.
Shall we go learn to kiss? _To kiss?_
Never heart could ever miss

Comfort where true meaning is.
Thus at base they run, _They run,_
When the sport was scarce begun;

But I waked, and all was done.
Another of the Same
Say that I should say I love ye,
Would you say 'tis but a saying?
But
if Love in prayers move ye,
Will ye not be moved with praying?
Think I think that Love should know ye,
Will you think 'tis but a
thinking?
But if Love the thought do show ye,
Will ye loose your
eyes with winking?
Write that I do write you blessed,
Will you write 'tis but a writing?

But if Truth and Love confess it,
Will ye doubt the true inditing?
No, I say, and think, and write it,
Write, and think, and say your
pleasure;
Love, and truth, and I indite it,
You are blessèd out of
measure.
A Shepherd's Dream
A silly shepherd lately sat
Among a flock of sheep;
Where musing
long on this and that,
At last he fell asleep.
And in the slumber as
he lay,
He gave a piteous groan;
He thought his sheep were run
away,
And he was left alone.
He whoop'd, he whistled, and he call'd,

But not a sheep came near him;
Which made the shepherd sore
appall'd
To see that none would hear him.
But as the swain amazèd

stood,
In this most solemn vein,
Came Phyllida forth of the wood,

And stood before the swain.
Whom when the shepherd did behold

He straight began to weep,
And at the heart he grew a-cold,
To
think upon his sheep.
For well he knew, where came the queen,
The
shepherd durst not stay:
And where that he durst not be seen,
The
sheep must needs away.
To ask her if she saw his flock,
Might
happen patience move,
And have an answer with a mock,
That such
demanders prove.
Yet for because he saw her come
Alone out of
the wood,
He thought he would not stand as dumb,
When speech
might do him good;
And therefore falling on his knees,
To ask but
for his sheep,
He did awake, and so did leese
The honour of his
sleep.
A Quarrel with Love
Oh that I could write a story
Of love's dealing with affection!
How
he makes the spirit sorry
That is touch'd with his infection.
But he doth so closely wind him,
In the plaits of will ill-pleased,

That the heart can never find him
Till it be too much diseased.
'Tis a subtle