Sweet Love, begone awhile, Thou knowest my heaviness: Beauty is born but to beguile My heart of happiness. See how my little flock, That loved to feed on high, Do headlong tumble down the rock, And in the valley die. The bushes and the trees That were so fresh and green, Do all their dainty colour leese, And not a leaf is seen. The blackbird and the thrush, That made the woods to ring, With all the rest, are now at hush, And not a note they sing. Sweet Philomel, the bird That hath the heavenly throat, Doth now alas! not once afford Recording of a note. The flowers have had a frost, Each herb hath lost her savour; And Phyllida the fair hath lost The comfort of her favour. Now all these careful sights So kill me in conceit, That how to hope upon delights It is but mere deceit. And therefore, my sweet Muse, Thou know'st what help is best; Do now thy heavenly cunning use To set my heart at rest; And in a dream bewray What fate shall be my friend; Whether my life shall still decay, Or when my sorrow end. Aglaia: a Pastoral Sylvan Muses, can ye sing Of the beauty of the Spring? Have ye seen on earth that sun That a heavenly course hath run? Have ye lived to see those eyes Where the pride of beauty lies? Have ye heard that heavenly voice That may make Love's heart rejoice? Have ye seen Aglaia, she Whom the world may joy to see? If ye have not seen all these, Then ye do but labour leese; While ye tune your pipes to play But an idle roundelay; And in sad Discomfort's den Everyone go bite her pen; That she cannot reach the skill How to climb that blessed hill Where Aglaia's fancies dwell, Where exceedings do excell, And in simple truth confess She is that fair shepherdess To whom fairest flocks a-field Do their service duly yield: On whom never Muse hath gazed But in musing is amazed; Where the honour is too much For their highest thoughts to touch; Thus confess, and get ye gone To your places every one; And in silence only speak When ye find your speech too weak. Blessed be Aglaia yet, Though the Muses die for it; Come abroad, ye blessed Muses, Ye that Pallas chiefly chooses, When she would command a creature In the honour of Love's nature, For the sweet Aglaia fair All to sweeten all the air, Is abroad this blessed day; Haste ye, therefore, come away: And to kill Love's maladies Meet her with your melodies. Flora hath been all about, And hath brought her wardrobe out; With her fairest, sweetest flowers, All to trim up all your bowers. Bid the shepherds and their swains See the beauty of their plains; And command them with their flocks To do reverence on the rocks; Where they may so happy be As her shadow but to see: Bid the birds in every bush Not a bird to be at hush: But to sit, and chirp, and sing To the beauty of the Spring: Call the sylvan nymphs together, Bid them bring their musicks hither. Trees their barky silence break, Crack yet, though they cannot speak Bid the purest, whitest swan