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From his affecting thee, Now there is none but shee (45) that is Corins blisse: Phillis men the Virgin call, She is Buxome, faire and tall, Yet not like Phillida: If I my minde might say, (50) eyes oft deeme amisse. He commends her beauty rare, Which with thine may not compare. He doth extoll her eye, Silly thing, if thine were by, (55) thus conceit can erre: He is rauish’d with her breath, Thine can quicken life in death. He praiseth all her parts, Thine, winnes a world of harts, (60) more, if more there were.
Looke sweet Nimph vpon thy flock, They stand still, and now feede not, As if they shar’d with thee: Griefe for this iniurie, (65) offred to true loue. Pretty Lambkins, how they moane, And in bleating seeme to groane, That any Shepheards Swaine, Should cause their Mistresse paine: (70) by affects remoue. If you looke but on the grasse, It’s not halfe so greene as ’twas: When I began my tale,