for sweetnesse, for sweetnesse, our Pan that old Arcadian Knight:
Cor. And me thinks my true-Loue beares the bell for clearenesse, for clearenesse, (40) beyond the Nimphs that be so bright.
Phil. Had my Coridon, my Coridon, beene (alack) my Swaine:
Cor. Had my louely one, my louely one, beene in Ida plaine. +
Cor. The Queene of Loue had beene excus’d, bequeathing, bequeathing, (50) my Phillida the golden ball.
Phil. Yonder comes my Mother, Coridon, whether shall I flie?
Cor. Vnder yonder Beech my louely one, while she passeth by. (55) Say to her thy true-Loue was not here, remember, remember, to morrow is another day: +
Phil. Doubt me not, my true-Loue, doe not feare, farewell then, farewell then, (60) heauen keepe our loues alway. +