O, fair eyes, yet let me see, One good look, and I am gone: Look on me, for I am he, Thy poor silly Corydon. Thou that art the shepherds' queen, Look upon thy silly swain; By thy comfort have been seen Dead men brought to life again. Corydon's Supplication to Phyllis Sweet Phyllis, if a silly swain May sue to thee for grace, See not thy loving shepherd slain With looking on thy face; But think what power thou hast got Upon my flock and me; Thou seest they now regard me not, But all do follow thee. And if I have so far presumed, With prying in thine eyes, Yet let not comfort be consumed That in thy pity lies; But as thou art that Phyllis fair, That fortune favour gives, So let not love die in despair That in thy favour lives. The deer do browse upon the briar, The birds do pick the cherries; And will not Beauty grant Desire One handful of her berries? If it be so that thou hast sworn That none shall look on thee, Yet let me know thou dost not scorn To cast a look on me. But if thy beauty make thee proud, Think then what is ordain'd; The heavens have never yet allow'd That love should be disdain'd. Then lest the fates that favour love Should curse thee for unkind, Let me report for thy behoof, The honour of thy mind; Let Corydon with full consent Set down what he hath seen, That Phyllida with Love's content Is sworn the shepherds' queen. A Report Song in a Dream, between a shepherd and his nymph Shall we go dance the hay? _The hay?_ Never pipe could ever play Better shepherd's roundelay. Shall we go sing the song? _The song?_ Never Love did ever wrong. Fair maids, hold hands all along. Shall we go learn to woo? _To woo?_ Never thought came ever to[o](?) Better deed could better do. Shall we go learn to kiss? _To kiss?_ Never heart could ever miss Comfort where true meaning is. Thus at base they run, _They run,_ When the sport was scarce begun; But I waked, and all was done. Another of the Same Say that I should say I love ye, Would you say 'tis but a saying? But if Love in prayers move ye, Will ye not be moved with praying? Think I think that Love should know ye, Will you think 'tis but a thinking? But if Love the thought do show ye, Will ye loose your eyes with winking? Write that I do write you blessed, Will you write 'tis but a writing? But if Truth and Love confess it, Will ye doubt the true inditing? No, I say, and think, and write it, Write, and think, and say your pleasure; Love, and truth, and I indite it, You are blessed out of measure. A Shepherd's Dream