If thou wilt love me, thou shalt be my boy, My sweet delight, the comfort of my minde, My love, my dove, my sollace, and my joy; But if I can no grace nor mercie finde, Ile goe to Caucasus to ease my smart, And let a vulture gnaw upon my hart. Yet if thou wilt but show me one kinde looke, A small reward for my so great affection, Ile grave thy name in Beauties golden booke, And shrowd thee under Hellicon's protection: Making the muses chaunt thy lovely prayse, For they delight in shepheard's lowly layes. And when th'art wearie of thy keeping sheepe Upon a lovely downe, to please thy minde, Ile give thee fine ruffe-footed doves to keepe, And pretie pidgeons of another kinde: A robbin-redbrest shall thy minstrell bee, Chirping thee sweet and pleasant melodie. Or if thou wilt goe shoote at little birds, With bow and boult, the thrustle-cocke and sparrow, Such as our countrey hedges can afford, I have a fine bowe, and an yvorie arrow. And if thou misse, yet meate thou shalt [not] lacke, Ile hang a bag and bottle at thy backe. Wilt thou set springes in a frostie night To catch the long-bill'd woodcocke and the snype, By the bright glimmering of the starrie light, The partridge, phaesant, or the greedie grype; Ile lend thee lyme-twigs, and fine sparrow calls, Wherewith the fowler silly birds inthralls. Or in a mystie morning if thou wilt Make pitfalls for the larke and pheldifare, Thy prop and sweake shall be both overguilt, With Cyparissus selfe thou shalt compare For gins and wyles, the oozels to beguile, Whilst thou under a bush shalt sit and smile. Or with hare-pypes set in a muset hole, Wilt thou deceave the deep-earth-delving coney; Or wilt thou in a yellow boxen bole, Taste with a wooden splent the sweet lythe honey; Clusters of crimson grapes Ile pull thee downe, And with vine-leaves make thee a lovely crowne. Or wilt thou drinke a cup of new-made wine, Froathing at top, mixt with a dish of creame And strawberries, or bilberries, in their prime, Bath'd in a melting sugar-candie streame: Bunnell and perry I have for thee alone, When vynes are dead, and all the grapes are gone. I have a pleasant noted nightingale, That sings as sweetly as the silver swan, Kept in a cage of bone as white as whale, Which I with singing of Philemon wan: Her shalt thou have, and all I have beside, If thou wilt be my boy, or els my bride. Then will I lay out all my lardarie Of cheese, of cracknells, curds and clowted-creame, Before thy malecontent ill-pleasing eye; But why doo I of such great follies dreame? Alas, he will not see my simple coate, For all my speckled lambe, nor milk-white goate!