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 Shee's in a Frocke of Lincolne greene, Which colour likes her sight, And never hath her beautie seene Then Roses richer to behold GORBO. Thou well describ'st the Daffadill; BATTE. Since by the Spring neere yonder Hill Yet my faire Flowre thou didst not meet And yet my Daffadil['s] more sweet GORBO. I saw a Shepheard that doth keepe, Was making (as he fed his Sheepe) BATTE. Yet, Gorbo, thou delud'st me still; Is worne of none but mee. To shew it selfe but neere her feate Except to shade her from the heate GORBO. Through yonder Vale as I did passe, I met a smerking bonny Lasse ; 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; 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 To Vulcan commending 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, |