My Phyllis hath the morning sun At first to look upon her: And Phyllis hath morn-waking birds Her rising still to honour. My Phyllis hath prime feathered flowers That smile when she treads on them: And Phyllis hath a gallant flock That leaps since she doth own them. But Phyllis hath too hard a heart, Alas, that she should have it! It yields no mercy to desert Nor peace to those that crave it. Sweet Sun, when thou look'st on, Pray her regard my moan! Sweet birds, when you sing to her, To yield some pity woo her! Sweet flowers, that she treads on, Tell her, her beauty dreads one; And if in life her love she'll not agree me, Pray her before I die, she will come see me. Sir Edward Dyer. THE ENAMOURED SHEPHERD. O gentle Love, ungentle for thy deed! Thou mak'st my heart A bloody mark, With piercing shot to bleed. Shoot soft, sweet Love! for fear thou shoot amiss, For fear too keen Thy arrows been, And hit the heart where my Beloved is. Too fair that fortune were, nor never I Shall be so blest, Among the rest, That Love shall seize on her by sympathy. Then since with Love my prayers bear no boot, This doth remain To cease my pain: I take the wound, and die at Venus' foot. George Peele. HIS LOVE ADMITS NO RIVAL. Shall I like a hermit dwell, On a rock, or in a cell, Calling home the smallest part That is missing of my heart, To bestow it where I may Meet a rival every day? If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be? Were her tresses angel gold, If a stranger may be bold, Unrebuked, unafraid, To convert them to a braid, And with little more ado Work them into bracelets too? If the mine be grown so free, What care I how rich it be? Were her hand as rich a prize As her hairs, or precious eyes, If she lay them out to take Kisses, for good manners' sake: And let every lover skip From her hand unto her lip; If she seem not chaste to me, What care I how chaste she be? No; she must be perfect snow, In effect as well as show; Warming, but as snowballs do, Not like fire, by burning too; But when she by change hath got To her heart a second lot, Then if others share with me, Farewell her, whate'er she be! Sir Walter Raleigh. THE SHEPHERD'S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE. "Shepherd, what's love? I pray thee tell!"-- It is that fountain, and that well, Where pleasure and repentance dwell; It is, perhaps, that passing bell That tolls us all to heaven or hell; And this is love, as I heard tell.