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Sweete Love, begone a while,
Thou seest my heavinesse ; Beautie is borne but to beguyle
My harte of happinesse.
See how my little flocke,
That lovde to feede on highe,
And in the valley dye.
The bushes and the trees,
That were so freshe and greene, Doe all their daintie colors leese,
And not a leafe is seene.
The blacke bird and the thrushe,
That made the woodes to ringe, With all the rest, are now at hushe,
And not a note they singe.
Swete Philomele, the birde
That hath the heavenly throte, Doth nowe, alas! not once afforde
Recordinge of a note.
The flowers have had a frost,
The herbes have lost their savoure; And Phillada the faire hath lost
For me her wonted favour.
Thus all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
It is but mere deceite.
And therefore my sweete muse,
That knoweth what helpe is best, Doe nowe thy heavenlie cunning use
To sett my harte at rest.
And in a dream bewraie
What fate shall be my friende; Whether my life shall still decaye, Or when my sorrowes ende.
NICHOLAS BRETON, about 1570. PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.*
In the merrie moneth of Maye,
Where anon by a wood side,
Much adoe there was, God wot;
He sayde hee had lovde her longe :
Tyll they doe for good and all.
Then with many a prettie othe,
* The Honorable Entertainement given to the Queenes Majestie (Queen Elizabeth) in Progresse at Elvetham, in Hampshire, by the R. H. the Earle of Hertford, 1591:
" The thirde daies Entertainement.
** On Wednesday morning, about 9 o'clock, as her Majestie opened a casement of her gallerie window, ther were three excellent musitians, who, being disguised in auncient country attire, did greete her with a pleasant song of Corydon and Phillida, made in three parts, of purpose. The song, as well for the worth of the dittie, as the aptnesse of the vote thereto applied, it pleased her Highnesse after it had been once sung, to command it againe, and highly to grace it with her cheerefull acceptaunce and commendation."
Love that had bene long deluded
FROM "THE FLEECE."
If verdant elder spreads
Now to the other hemisphere, my muse!
Happy the voyage o'er the Atlantic brine,