With that she bent her Snow-white knee, Downe by the Shepheard kneeled shee And him she sweetlie kist:

With that the Shepheard whoop'd for joy; Quoth he, there's never Shepheards Boy That ever was so blist.

Extract from the Ninth Eclogue (ed. 1619).

BATTE.

Gorbo as thou cam'st this waye

By yonder little hill,

Or as thou through the Fields didst stray
Saw'st thou my Daffadill?

Shee's in a Frocke of Lincolne greene,

Which colour likes her sight,

And never hath her beautie seene
But through a vale of white.

Then Roses richer to behold
That trim up Lovers Bowres,
The Pansie and the Marigold,
Tho Phabus Paramours.

GORBO. Thou well describ'st the Daffadill;
It is not full an houre

BATTE.

Since by the Spring neere yonder Hill
I saw that lovely Flowre.

Yet my faire Flowre thou didst not meet
Nor newes of her did'st bring,

And yet my Daffadil['s] more sweet
Than that by yonder Spring.

GORBO. I saw a Shepheard that doth keepe,
In yonder Field of Lillies,

Was making (as he fed his Sheepe)
A wreathe of Daffadillies.

BATTE. Yet, Gorbo, thou delud'st me still;
My Flowre thou didst not see,
For, know, my pretty Daffadill

Is worne of none but mee.

To shew it selfe but neere her feate
No Lilly is so bold,

Except to shade her from the heate
Or keepe her from the cold.

GORBO. Through yonder Vale as I did passe,
Descending from the Hill,

I met a smerking bonny Lasse ;
They call her Daffadill

Whose presence as along she went

The pretty Flowres did greet

As though their Heads they downeward bent

With homage to her feet.

And all the Shepheards that were nie,

From top of every Hill

Unto the Valleyes loud did crie

'There goes sweet Daffadil

BATTE. I, gentle Shepheard, now with joy

Thou all my Flocks dost fill;

That's she alone, kind Shepheards Boy;
Let us to Daffadil.

And since doom'd by Fate

(That well knew his Hate)

That Hee should be blinde,

For very despite

Our Eyes be his White;

So wayward his kinde.

If his Shafts loosing

(Ill his Marke choosing)

Or his Bow broken,

The Moane Venus maketh
And care that she taketh
Cannot be spoken.

To Vulcan commending
Her love and straight sending

Her Doves and her Sparrowes

With kisses unto him;

And all but to woo him

To make her Sonne Arrowes!

Telling what he hath done

(Sayth she, Right mine owne Sonne) In her Armes she him closes ;

Sweetes on him fans

Layd in Downe of her Swans,

His Sheets Leaves of Roses.

And feeds him with kisses,
Which oft when he misses