Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!), Was never morn so fair, There shone a sun, though not the sun That shineth in the air. For the earth, and from the earth, (Was never such a creature!) Did come this face (was never face That carried such a feature). Upon a hill (O blessed hill! Was never hill so blessed), There stood a man (was never man For woman so distressed): This man beheld a heavenly view, Which did such virtue give As clears the blind, and helps the lame, And makes the dead man live. This man had hap (O happy man! More happy none than he); For he had hap to see the hap That none had hap to see. This silly swain (and silly swains Are men of meanest grace): Had yet the grace (O gracious gift!) To hap on such a face. He pity cried, and pity came And pitied so his pain, As dying would not let him die But gave him life again. For joy whereof he made such mirth As all the woods did ring; And Pan with all his swains came forth To hear the shepherd sing; But such a song sung never was, Nor shall be sung again, Of Phyllida the shepherds' queen, And Corydon the swain. Fair Phyllis is the shepherds' queen, (Was never such a queen as she,) And Corydon her only swain (Was never such a swain as he): Fair Phyllis hath the fairest face That ever eye did yet behold, And Corydon the constant'st faith That ever yet kept flock in fold; Sweet Phyllis is the sweetest sweet That ever yet the earth did yield, And Corydon the kindest swain That ever yet kept lambs in field. Sweet Philomel is Phyllis' bird, Though Corydon be he that caught her, And Corydon doth hear her sing, Though Phyllida be she that taught her: Poor Corydon doth keep the fields Though Phyllida be she that owes them, And Phyllida doth walk the meads, Though Corydon be he that mows them: The little lambs are Phyllis' love, Though Corydon is he that feeds them, The gardens fair are Phyllis' ground, Though Corydon is he that weeds them. Since then that Phyllis only is The only shepherd's only queen; And Corydon the only swain That only hath her shepherd been,-- Though Phyllis keep her bower of state, Shall Corydon consume away? No, shepherd, no, work out the week, And Sunday shall be holiday. A Pastoral of Phyllis and Corydon On a hill there grows a flower, Fair befall the dainty sweet! By that flower there is a bower, Where the heavenly Muses meet. In that bower there is a chair, Fringed all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fair That did ever eye behold. It is Phyllis, fair and bright, She that is the shepherds' joy, She that Venus did despite, And did blind her little boy. This is she, the wise, the rich, That the world desires to see: This is _ipsa quae_, the which There is none but only she. Who would not this face admire? Who would not this saint adore? Who would not this sight desire, Though he thought to see no more?