Borrill an aged shepheard swaine ,
With reasons doth reproove,
Batte a foolish wanton boy ,
but lately falne in love.

Batte.

Borrill, why sit'st thou musing in thy coate?
like dreaming Merlyn in his drowsie Cell,
What may it be with learning thou doest doate,
or art inchanted with some Magick spell?
Or wilt thou now an Hermites life professe?
And bid thy beades heare like an Ancoresse?

Ring out your belles, let mourning shewes be spread;
For Loue is dead:
All Loue is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdaine:
Worth, as nought worth, reiected,
And Faith faire scorne doth gaine.
From so vngrateful fancie,
From such a femall franzie,
From them that vse men thus,
Good Lord, deliuer us!

Weepe, neighbours, weepe; do you not heare it said
That Loue is dead?
His death-bed, peacock's follie;
His winding-sheete is shame;
His will, false-seeming holie;
His sole exec'tour, blame.

In a field full fayer of flowers,
Where the Muses made their bowers,
And more sweeter hony grew
Then the sence of Nature knew,
Preevie sweete with hartsease springing,
While sweete Philomel was singing,
Coridon and Phillis fayer
Went abroad to take the ayer —
Each in absence long diseased,
But in presence either pleased —
Where begun their pritle pratle,
Ther was prety title tatle.
" Coridon," quoth she, " a tryall
Must, in truth, haue no deniall,"
" True," quoth he; and then he proued,
" Well, I hope [I] shall be loued."

Philoclea and Pamela sweete,
By chance in one greate house did meete;
And, meeteinge, did soe ioyne in hart,
That th' one from th' other could not part:
And whoe, indeed, not made of stones,
Would seperate such lovely ones?
The one is beautifull and faire
As lillies and white roses are,
And sweete as, after gentle showers,
The breath is of some thousand flowers:

For due proportion, such an ayre
Circles the other, not soe faire,
Which soe her brownness beautifies,
That itt inchaunts the wisest eyes

When two sunnes doe appeare,
Some say it doth betoken wonders neare,
As prince's losse or change.
Two gleaming sunnes of splendour like I see,
And seeing feele in me
Of prince's heart quite lost the ruine strange.
But now each where doth range
With vgly cloke the darke enuious Night;
Who, full of guiltie spite,
Such liuing beames should her blacke seate assaile,
Too weake for them our weaker sight doth vaile
No, sayes faire moone, my light
Shall barre that wrong; and though it not preuaile
Like to my brother's rayes, yet those I send

You goodly pines, which still with braue ascent
In Nature's pride your heads to heav'nward heaue; —
Though you, besides such graces earth hath lent,
Of some late grace a greater grace receiue,
By her who was (O blessed you!) content
With her faire hand your tender barkes to cleaue,
And so by you (O blessed you!) hath sent
Such piercing words as no thoughts else conceiue; —
Yet yeeld your grant; a baser hand may leaue
His thoughts in you, where so sweet thoughts were spent:
For how would you the mistresse' thoughts bereaue

Sweete roote, say thou the roote of my desire
Was Vertue cladde in constant Loue's attire.

Doe not disdaine, O streight vp-raised pine,
That, wounding thee, my thoughts in thee I graue,
Since that my thoughts, as streight as streightnesse thine,
No smaller wound — alas, far deeper — haue:
Deeper engrau'd, which salue nor time can saue,
Giu'n to my heart by my sore-wounded eyne:
Thus cruell to my selfe, how canst thou craue
My inward hurt should spare thy outward rine?
Yet still, faire tree, lift vp thy stately line,
Liue long, and long witnesse my chosen smart,
Which barr'd desires (barr'd by my selfe) impart,

This caue is darke, but it had neuer light;
This waxe doth waste it selfe, yet painelesse dies;
These words are full of woes, yet feele they none
I darkned am, who once had clearest sight;
I waste my heart, which still new torments tries;
I plaine with cause, my woes are all mine owne.
No caue, no wasting waxe, no words of griefe,
Can hold, shew, tell my paines without reliefe.

An Octave by Gynecia

Like those sicke folkes in whom strange humours flow,
Can taste no sweets, the sowre onely please;
So to my mind, while passions daily grow,
Whose fierie chaines vpon his freedome seaze,
Ioyes strangers seeme, I cannot bide their show,
Nor brooke ought else but well-acquainted woe;
Bitter griefe tastes me best, paine is my ease;
Sicke to the death, still louing my disease.