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What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod?

He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee.
O Cupid! so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee.

And we will sit upon the rocks,

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sings madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,

And a thousand fragrant posies,

-THOM. LODGE (15587-1625)

THE HERDMAN'S HAPPY LIFE

What pleasure have great princes More dainty to their choice

Than herdmen wild, who careless

In quiet life rejoice?

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A cap of flowers and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle:

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All day their flocks each tendeth,

At night they take their rest,

More quiet than who sendeth

His ship into the east,

Where gold and pearl are plenty, But getting very dainty.

For lawyers and their pleading, They 'steem it not a straw;

They think that honest meaning,

Is of itself a law;

Where conscience judgeth plainly, They spend no money vainly.

Oh, happy who thus liveth!

Not caring much for gold; With clothing which sufficeth,

To keep him from the cold. Though poor and plain his diet, Yet merry it is and quiet.

OUT OF M. BIRD'S SET SONGS

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A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delights each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
- CHR. MARLOW (1564-1593)

THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE

SHEPHERD

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

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And as she runs, the bushes in the way
Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,
Some twine about her thigh to make her stay:
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,

Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,
Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.

By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay;
Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder
Wreathed up in fatal folds just in his way,
The fear whereof doth make him shake and shud-
der;

Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
Appals her senses and her spirit confounds.

For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,
Because the cry remaineth in one place,
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:

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