Two harmless lambs are butting one the other,
Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother ;

And wounds are never found,
Save what the plough-share gives the ground.

Here are no false entrapping baits,
To hasten too too hasty fates ;

Unless it be

The fond credulity
Of silly fish, which worldling-like, still look
Upon the bait, but never on the hook :

Nor envy, unless among
The birds, for prize of their sweet song.

Go! let the diving negro seek
For gems hid in some forlorn creek ;

We all pearls scorn,

Save what the dewy morn
Congeals upon each little spire of grass,

, Which careless shepherds beat down as they pass;

And gold ne'er here appears, Save what the yellow Ceres bears.

Blest silent groves ! O may ye be
For ever mirth's best nursery !

May pure contents

For ever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these

mountains, And peace still slumber by these purling fountains !

Which we may every year
Find when we come a fishing here !

Dispraise of Love, and Lovers' Follies.
IF love be life, I long to die,

Live they that list for me:
And he that gains the most thereby,

A fool at least shall be.
But he that feels the sorest fits,
'Scapes with no less than loss of wits.

Unhappy life they gain,
Which love do entertain.

In day by feigned looks they live,

By lying dreams in night;
Each frown a deadly wound doth give,

Each smile a false delight.
If't hap their lady pleasant seem,
It is for others’ love they deem :

If void she seem of joy,
Disdain doth make her coy.

Such is the peace that lovers find,

Such is the life they lead,
Blown here and there with every wind,

Like flowers in the mead.
Now war, now peace, now war again,
Desire, despair, delight; disdain,

Though dead in midst of life,
In peace and yet at strife.

Phillida's Love-call to her Coridon, and his Replying.
Phil. Coridon, arise my Coridon ;

Titan shineth clear.
Cor. Who is it that calleth Coridon ?

Who is it that I hear?
Phil. Phillida, thy true love, calleth thee;

Arise then, arise then;

Arise, and keep thy flock with me.

Cor. Phillida, my true love, is it she ?

I come then, I come then,

I come and keep my flock with thee! Phil. Here are cherries ripe for my Coridon ;

Eat them for my sake.
Cor. Here's my oaten pipe, my lovely one,

Sport for thee to make.
Phil. Here are threads, my true love, fine as silk,

To knit thee, to knit thee

A pair of stocking white as milk. Cor. Here are reeds, my true love, fine and feat,

To make thee, to make thee,

A bonnet, to withstand the heat.
Phil. I will gather flowers, my Coridon,

To set in thy cap.
Cor. I will gather pears, my lovely one,

To put in thy lap.
Phil. I will buy my true love garters gay,

For Sundays, for Sundays,

To wear about his legs so tall. Cor. I will buy my true love yellow say,

For Sundays, for Sundays,

To wear about her middle small. Phil. When

my

Coridon sits on a hill

Making melody:
Cor. When my lovely one goes to her wheel,

Singing cherily,
Phil. Sure methinks my true love doth excel

For sweetness, for sweetness,

Sir Pan, that old Arcadian knight: Cor. Sure methinks my true love bears the bell

For clearness, for clearness,

Beyond the nymphs that Syren hight. Phil. Had my Coridon, my Coridon,

Been, alack, my swain:
Cor. Had my lovely one, my lovely one,

Been in Ida plain :
Phil. Cynthia Endymion had refus'd,

Preferring, preferring,

My Coridon to play with-all : Cor. The queen of love had been excus'd

Bequeathing, bequeathing,

My Phillida the golden ball.
Phil. Yonder comes my mother, Coridon !

Whither shall I fly?
Cor. Under yonder beech, my lovely one,

While she passeth by.
Phil. Say to her thy true love was not here:

Remember, remember,

To-morrow is another day ! Cor. Doubt me not, my true love; do not fear;

Farewell then, farewell then;

Heaven keep our loves alway!

The Shepherd's Slumber.
In Pescod time, when hound to horn

Gives ear till buck be kill'd,
And little lads with pipes of corn

Sate keeping beasts a-field,
I went to gather strawberries tho',

By woods and groves full fair ;
And parch'd my face with Phoebus so,

In walking in the air,
That down I laid me by a stream,

With boughs all over clad;
And there I met the strangest dream,

That ever shepherd had.
Methought I saw each Christmas game,

Each revel all and some;
And every thing that I can name,

Or may in fancy come.
The substance of the sights I saw,

In silence pass they shall;
Because I lack the skill to draw

The order of them all;

But Venus shall not pass my pen,

Whose maidens, in disdain,
Did feed upon the hearts of men,

That Cupid's bow had slain.
And that blind boy was all in blood

Be-bath'd up to the ears:
And like a conqueror he stood,

And scorned lovers' tears. “ I have,” quoth he, “ more hearts at call,

Than Cæsar could command,
And like the deer I make them fall,

That runneth o'er the lawnd c.
One drops down here, another there,

In bushes as they groan ;
I bend a scornful, careless ear,

To hear them make their moan.” “ Ah, sir!" quoth Honest Meaning then,

“ Thy boy-like brags I hear, When thou hast wounded many a man,

As huntsman doth the deer.
Becomes it thee to triumph so?

Thy mother wills it not:
For she had rather break thy bow,

Than thou should'st play the sot.”
“ What saucy merchant speaketh now?"

Said Venus in her rage: “ Art thou so blind thou knowest not how

I govern every age ?
My son doth shoot no shaft in waste;

To me the boy is bound:
He never found a heart so chaste,

But he had power to wound.” “ Not so, fair goddess", quoth Free Will:

“ In me there is a choice : And cause I am of mine own ill,

If I in thee rejoice.