DORUS Nightingales seldom sing, the pie still chattereth, The wood cries most, before it thoroughly kindled be, Deadly wounds inward bleed, each slight sore mattereth. Hardly they heard, which by good hunters singled be: Shallow brooks murmur most, deep, silent slide away, Nor true-love, his love with others mingled be. THYRSIS If thou wilt not be seen, thy face go hide away, Be none of us, or else maintain our fashion: Who frowns at others’ feasts, doth better bide away. But if thou hast a love, in that love’s passion, I challenge thee by show of her perfection, Which of us two deserveth most compassion. DORUS Thy challenge great, but greater my protection: Sing then, and see (for now thou hast inflamed me) Thy health too mean a match for my infection. No, though the heaven’s for high attempts have blamed me, Yet high is my attempt. O Muse historify Her praise, whose praise to learn your skill hath framed me. THYRSIS Muse hold your peace, but thou my god Pan glorify My Kala’s gifts, who with all good gifts filled is. Thy pipe, O Pan, shall help, though I sing sorrily. A heap of sweets she is, where nothing spilled is; Who though she be no Bee, yet full of honey is: A Lily-field, with plough of Rose which tilled is: Mild as a lamb, more dainty than a coney is: Her eyes my eye-sight is, her conversation More glad to me than to a miser money is. What coy account she makes of estimation? How nice to touch? how all her speeches poised be? A nymph thus turned, but mended in translation. DORUS Such Kala is: but ah my fancies raised be In one, whose name to name were high presumption, Since virtue’s all, to make her title pleased be. {100} O happy gods, which by inward assumption Enjoy her soul, in body’s fair possession, And keep it join’d, fearing your seat’s consumption. How oft with rain of tears skies make confession, Their dwellers wrapt with sight of her perfection, From heav’nly throne to her heav’n use digression? Of best things then what world shall yield confection To liken her? deck yours with your comparison: She is herself of best things the collection. THYRSIS How oft my doleful sire cry’d to me, “Tarry son,” When first he spied my love! how oft he said to me, “Thou art no soldier fit for Cupid’s garrison? My son keep this, that my long toil hath laid to me: Love well thine own, methinks wool’s whiteness passeth all: I never found long love such wealth hath paid to me.” This wind he spent: but when my Kala glasseth all My sight in her fair limbs, I then assure myself, Not rotten sheep, but high crowns she surpasseth all. Can I be poor, that her gold hair procure myself? Want I white wool, whose eyes her white skin garnished? ’Till I get her, shall I to keep inure myself?