Phylida was a fair maid And fresh as any flower, Whom Harpalus the herdman prayed To be his paramour. Harpalus and eke Corin Were herdmen, both yfere; And Phylida could twist and spin, And thereto sing full clear. But Phylida was all too coy For Harpalus to win; For Corin was her only joy, Who forced her not a pin. How often would she flowers twine, How often garlands make, Of cowslips and of columbine, And all for Corin's sake! But Corin, he had hawks to lure, And forced more the field; Of lovers' law he took no cure, For once he was beguiled. Harpalus prevailed nought; His labour all was lost; For he was farthest from her thoughts, And yet he loved her most. Therefore waxed he both pale and lean, And dry as clot of clay; His flesh it was consumed clean, His colour gone away.... His beasts he kept upon the hill, And he sate in the dale; And thus, with sighs and sorrows shrill, He gan to tell his tale. "O Harpalus,"--thus would he say-- "Unhappiest under sun, The cause of thine unhappy day By love was first begun!... O Cupid, grant this my request, And do not stop thine ears, That she may feel within her breast The pains of my despairs! Of Corin that is careless, That she may crave her fee, As I have done in great distress, That loved her faithfully!" ... Barnaby Googe (?). A STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER. Amid my bale I bathe in bliss, I swim in Heaven, I sink in hell: I find amends for every miss, And yet my moan no tongue can tell. I live and love (what would you more?) As never lover lived before. I laugh sometimes with little lust, So jest I oft and feel no joy; Mine eye is builded all on trust, And yet mistrust breeds mine annoy. I live and lack, I lack and have; I have and miss the thing I crave. * * * * * Then like the lark that passed the night In heavy sleep with cares oppressed; Yet when she spies the pleasant light, She sends sweet notes from out her breast; So sing I now because I think How joys approach when sorrows shrink. And as fair Philomene again Can watch and sing when others sleep; And taketh pleasure in her pain, To wray the woe that makes her weep; So sing I now for to bewray The loathsome life I lead alway. The which to thee, dear wench, I write, Thou know'st my mirth but not my moan; I pray God grant thee deep delight, To live in joys when I am gone. I cannot live; it will not be: I die to think to part from thee. George Gascoigne. TO PHYLLIS, THE FAIR SHEPHERDESS.