YOU Fauns and Silvans, when my CHLORIS brings Her flocks to water in your pleasant plains, Solicit her to pity CORIN's stings! The smart whereof, for her, he still sustains. For she is ruthless of my woeful song. My oaten reed she not delights to hear. O CHLORIS! CHLORIS! CORIN thou dost wrong; Who loves thee better than his own heart dear. The flames of Etna are not half so hot As is the fire which thy disdain hath bred. Ah, cruel Fates! why do you then besot Poor CORIN's soul with love? when love is fled! Either cause cruel CHLORIS to relent, Or let me die upon the wound she sent! SONNET VI. YOU lofty Pines, co-partners of my woe, When CHLORIS sitteth underneath your shade; To her those sighs and tears, I pray you show, Whilst you attending, I for her have made. Whilst you attending droppèd have sweet balm, In token that you pity my distress: ZEPHIRUS hath your stately boughs made calm; Whilst I, to you my sorrows did express. The neighbour mountains bendèd have their tops, When they have heard my rueful melody; And Elves, in rings about me leap and hop, To frame my passions to their jollity. Resounding echoes, from their obscure caves Reiterate what most my fancy craves. SONNET VII. WHAT need I mourn? seeing PAN, our sacred King, Was, of that Nymph, fair SYRINX coy, disdained. The World's great Light, which comforteth each thing, All comfortless for DAPHNE's sake remained. If gods can find no help to heal the sore Made by LOVE's shafts, which pointed are with fire; Unhappy CORIN, then thy chance deplore! Since they despair by wanting their desire. I am not PAN, though I a shepherd be; Yet is my Love as fair as SYRINX was. My Song cannot with PHŒBUS's tunes agree; Yet CHLORIS doth his DAPHNE far surpass. How much more fair, by so much more unkind Than SYRINX coy, or DAPHNE, I her find. SONNET VIII. NO sooner had fair PHŒBUS trimmed his car, Being newly arisen from AURORA's bed; But I, in whom Despair and Hope did war, My unpenned flock unto the mountains led. Tripping upon the snow-soft downs I spied Three Nymphs, more fairer than those Beauties Three Which did appear to PARIS on Mount Ide. Coming more near, my goddess I there see. For She, the field Nymphs oftentimes doth haunt, To hunt with them the fierce and savage boar: And having sported, Virelays they chant; Whilst I, unhappy, helpless cares deplore. There did I call to her, ah, too unkind! But tiger-like, of me she had no mind. SONNET IX.