For Phillis lookes, no hartie loue doe yeeld, Nor can she loue, for all hir louely face, Die Coridon, the spoyle of Phillis eie, (30) She can not loue, and therefore thou must die.
W Hat cunnnig can expresse +The fauor of hir face, To whom in this distresse, I doe appeale for grace, (5) A thousand Cupids flie, About hir gentle eie.
From whence each throwes a dart, That kindleth soft sweete fier: Within my sighing hart, (10) Possessed by desier: No sweeter life I trie, Than in hir loue to die.
The Lillie in the fielde, +That glories in his white: (15) For purenes now must yeelde, And render vp his right: Heau’n pictur’de in hir face, Doth promise ioy and grace.
Faire Cinthias siluer light, (20) That beates on running streames; Compares not with hir white, Whose haires are all sunbeames; Hir vertues so doe shine,As daie vnto mine eine.
(25) With this there is a Red, Exceeds the Damaske Rose; Which in hir cheekes is spred;