Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton,Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William B | Page 6

flowers,?All to trim up all your bowers.?Bid the shepherds and their swains?See the beauty of their plains;?And command them with their flocks?To do reverence on the rocks;?Where they may so happy be?As her shadow but to see:?Bid the birds in every bush?Not a bird to be at hush:?But to sit, and chirp, and sing?To the beauty of the Spring:?Call the sylvan nymphs together,?Bid them bring their musicks hither.?Trees their barky silence break,?Crack yet, though they cannot speak?Bid the purest, whitest swan?Of her feathers make her fan;?Let the hound the hare go chase;?Lambs and rabbits run at base;?Flies be dancing in the sun,?While the silk-worm's webs are spun;?Hang a fish on every hook?As she goes along the brook;?So with all your sweetest powers?Entertain her in your bowers;?Where her ear may joy to hear?How ye make your sweetest quire;?And in all your sweetest vein?Still Aglaia strike her strain;?But when she her walk doth turn,?Then begin as fast to mourn;?All your flowers and garlands wither?Put up all your pipes together;?Never strike a pleasing strain?Till she come abroad again.
Phyllida and Corydon
In the merry month of May,?In a morn by break of day,?With a troop of damsels playing?Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying,?When anon by a woodside,?Where as May was in his pride,?I espied, all alone,?Phyllida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot!?He would love, and she would not:?She said, never man was true;?He says, none was false to you.?He said, he had loved her long:?She says, Love should have no wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then,?She says, maids must kiss no men,?Till they do for good and all.?Then she made the shepherd call?All the heavens to witness, truth?Never loved a truer youth.?Thus with many a pretty oath,?Yea, and nay, and faith and troth!--?Such as silly shepherds use?When they will not love abuse;?Love, which had been long deluded,?Was with kisses sweet concluded:?And Phyllida, with garlands gay,?Was made the lady of the May.
Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon
Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!),?Was never morn so fair,?There shone a sun, though not the sun?That shineth in the air.?For the earth, and from the earth,?(Was never such a creature!)?Did come this face (was never face?That carried such a feature).?Upon a hill (O bless��d hill!?Was never hill so bless��d),?There stood a man (was never man?For woman so distressed):?This man beheld a heavenly view,?Which did such virtue give?As clears the blind, and helps the lame,?And makes the dead man live.?This man had hap (O happy man!?More happy none than he);?For he had hap to see the hap?That none had hap to see.?This silly swain (and silly swains?Are men of meanest grace):?Had yet the grace (O gracious gift!)?To hap on such a face.?He pity cried, and pity came?And pitied so his pain,?As dying would not let him die?But gave him life again.?For joy whereof he made such mirth?As all the woods did ring;?And Pan with all his swains came forth?To hear the shepherd sing;?But such a song sung never was,?Nor shall be sung again,?Of Phyllida the shepherds' queen,?And Corydon the swain.?Fair Phyllis is the shepherds' queen,?(Was never such a queen as she,)?And Corydon her only swain?(Was never such a swain as he):?Fair Phyllis hath the fairest face?That ever eye did yet behold,?And Corydon the constant'st faith?That ever yet kept flock in fold;?Sweet Phyllis is the sweetest sweet?That ever yet the earth did yield,?And Corydon the kindest swain?That ever yet kept lambs in field.?Sweet Philomel is Phyllis' bird,?Though Corydon be he that caught her,?And Corydon doth hear her sing,?Though Phyllida be she that taught her:?Poor Corydon doth keep the fields?Though Phyllida be she that owes them,?And Phyllida doth walk the meads,?Though Corydon be he that mows them:?The little lambs are Phyllis' love,?Though Corydon is he that feeds them,?The gardens fair are Phyllis' ground,?Though Corydon is he that weeds them.?Since then 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,?Fring��d 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 qu?_, 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