To preuent ensuing ill, Which no doubt betide thee will, If thou doo not fore-see, To shunne it presentlie, (30) then thy harme I feare. Firme thy loue is, well I wot, To the man that loues thee not. Louely and gentle mayde, Thy hope is quite betrayde, (35) which my hart doth greeue: Corin is vnkind to thee, Though thou thinke contrarie. His loue is growne as light, As is his Faulcons flight, (40) this sweet Nimph beleeue.
Mopsus daughter, that young mayde, Her bright eyes his hart hath strayde 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 mind might say, (50) eyes oft deeme amisse. He commends her beauty rare, Which with thine may not compare. He dooth extoll her eye, Silly thing, if thine were by, (55) thus conceite can erre: H e is rauish’d with her breath, Thine can quicken life in death. H e prayseth all her parts, Thine, winnes a world of harts, (60) more, if more there were.