If Countrie Pan might follow Nimphs in chase, And yet through loue remaine deuoide of blame, (15) If Satires were excus’d for seeking grace, To ioy the fruites of any mortall Dame: My Shepheardesse, why should not I loue still. On whom nor Gods nor men can gaze their fill?
FINIS. Tho. Watson.
¶ Coridons Hymne in praise of Amarillis. +
W Ould mine eyes were christall Fountaines, Where you might the shadow view Of my greefes, like to these mountaines Swelling for the losse of you. (5) Cares which curelesse are alas, Helplesse, haplesse for they grow: Cares like tares in number passe, All the seedes that loue doth sow. Who but could remember all (10) Twinckling eyes still representing? Starres which pierce me to the gall? Cause they lend no more contenting. And you Nectar-lips, alluring Humane sence to tast of heauen: (15) For no Art of mans manuring, Finer silke hath euer weauen. Who but could remember this, The sweet odours of your fauour? When I smeld I was in blisse,