A silly shepherd lately sat Among a flock of sheep; Where musing long on this and that, At last he fell asleep. And in the slumber as he lay, He gave a piteous groan; He thought his sheep were run away, And he was left alone. He whoop'd, he whistled, and he call'd, But not a sheep came near him; Which made the shepherd sore appall'd To see that none would hear him. But as the swain amazed stood, In this most solemn vein, Came Phyllida forth of the wood, And stood before the swain. Whom when the shepherd did behold He straight began to weep, And at the heart he grew a-cold, To think upon his sheep. For well he knew, where came the queen, The shepherd durst not stay: And where that he durst not be seen, The sheep must needs away. To ask her if she saw his flock, Might happen patience move, And have an answer with a mock, That such demanders prove. Yet for because he saw her come Alone out of the wood, He thought he would not stand as dumb, When speech might do him good; And therefore falling on his knees, To ask but for his sheep, He did awake, and so did leese The honour of his sleep. A Quarrel with Love Oh that I could write a story Of love's dealing with affection! How he makes the spirit sorry That is touch'd with his infection. But he doth so closely wind him, In the plaits of will ill-pleased, That the heart can never find him Till it be too much diseased. 'Tis a subtle kind or spirit Of a venom-kind of nature, That can, like a coney-ferret, Creep unawares upon a creature. Never eye that can behold it, Though it worketh first by seeing; Nor conceit that can unfold it, Though in thoughts be all its being. Oh! it maketh old men witty, Young men wanton, women idle, While that patience weeps, for pity Reason bite not nature's bridle. What it is, in conjecture; Seeking much, but nothing finding; Like to fancy's architecture With illusions reason blinding. Yet, can beauty so retain it, In the profit of her service, That she closely can maintain it For her servant chief on office? In her eye she chiefly breeds it; In her cheeks she chiefly hides it; In her servant's faith she feeds it, While his only heart abides it. A Sweet Contention between Love, his Mistress, and Beauty Love and my mistress were at strife Who had the greatest power on me: Betwixt them both, oh, what a life! Nay, what a death is this to be! She said, she did it with her eye; He said, he did it with his dart; Betwixt them both (a silly wretch!) 'Tis I that have the wounded heart. She said, she only spake the word That did enchant my peering sense; He said, he only gave the sound That enter'd heart without defence. She said, her beauty was the mark That did amaze the highest mind; He said, he only made the mist Whereby the senses grew so blind.