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It yeelds no mercie to desert, nor grace to those that craue it. Sweete Sunne, when thou look’st on, pray her regard my moane. (15) Sweete birds, when you sing to her, to yeeld some pitty, woo her, Sweet flowers that she treads on, tell her, her beauty deads one. And if in life her loue she nill agree me: (20) Pray her before I die, she will come see me.


¶ The Sheepheard Dorons Iigge. +

T Hrough the shrubs as I can crack, for my Lambs pretty ones, mongst many little ones, Nimphs I meane, whose haire was black (5) As the Crow. Like as the Snow Her face and browes shin’d I weene, I saw a little one, a bonny pretty one, (10) As bright, buxome, and as sheene: As was shee. +On her knee That lull’d the God, + whose arrowes warmes such merry little ones, (15) such faire-fac’d pretty ones, As dally in Loues chiefest harmes. Such was mine, Whose gray eyne Made me loue: I gan to wooe (20) this sweete little one, this bonny pretty one.