With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue Her body every way is fed, Yet soft in touch and sweet in view: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline! Nature herself her shape admires; The Gods are wounded in her sight; And Love forsakes his heavenly fires And at her eyes his brand doth light: Heigh ho, would she were mine! Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan The absence of fair Rosaline, Since for a fair there's fairer none, Nor for her virtues so divine: Heigh ho, fair Rosaline; Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine! Thomas Lodge. THE MAY QUEEN. With fragrant flowers we strew the way, And make this our chief holiday; For though this clime were blest of yore, Yet was it never proud before. O beauteous Queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeigned joy! Now th' air is sweeter than sweet balm, And satyrs dance about the palm; Now earth, with verdure newly dight, Gives perfect signs of her delight. O beauteous Queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeigned joy! Now birds recall new harmony, And trees do whistle melody; Now everything that nature breeds, Doth clad itself in pleasant weeds. O beauteous Queen of second Troy, Accept of our unfeigned joy! Thomas Watson. PHILLIDA AND CORYDON. In the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, With a troop of damsels playing, Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying, When anon by a woodside, Where as May was in his pride, I espied, all alone, Phillida and Corydon. Much ado there was, God wot! He would love, and she would not: She said, never man was true: He said, none was false to you. He said, he had loved her long: She said, love should have no wrong. Corydon would kiss her then, She said, maids must kiss no men, Till they do for good and all; Then she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth, Never loved a truer youth. Thus with many a pretty oath, Yea, and nay, and faith and troth, Such as silly shepherds use When they will not love abuse; Love, which had been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded: And Phillida with garlands gay, Was made the lady of the May. Richard Breton. SHALL I COME, SWEET LOVE? Shall I come, sweet Love, to thee When the evening beams are set? Shall I not excluded be, Will you find no feigned let? Let me not, for pity, more Tell the long hours at your door. Who can tell what thief or foe, In the covert of the night, For his prey will work my woe, Or through wicked foul despite? So may I die unredrest Ere my long love be possest.