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Those cherries fairly do enclose

Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rosebuds fill'd with snow; Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still; 1

Her brows like bended bows do stand Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill All that attempt with eye or hand

Those sacred cherries to come nigh Till “Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry. - THOMAS CAMPION (d. 1619)

ENGLAND'S HELICON (1600)

PHYLLIDA AND CORYDON

In the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day,

Thus with many a pretty oath,

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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 Phyllida, with garlands gay,
Was made the Lady of the May.

-N. BRETON (1545?-1626?)

AS IT FELL UPON A DAY

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As it fell upon a day,

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In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade,

Which a group of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring,
Everything did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone;
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Lean'd her breast against a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
"Fie, fie, fie!" now would she cry;
"Teru, teru!" 2 by-and-by.
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain.

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
King Pandion 3 he is dead,

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;

All thy fellow birds do sing,

Careless of thy sorrowing;

Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.

IGNOTO

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ΙΟ

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PHYLLIDA'S LOVE-CALL ΤΟ HER

CORYDON, AND HIS REPLYING

PHYL. Corydon, arise my Corydon!
Titan shineth clear.

COR. Who is it that calleth Corydon?
Who is it that I hear?

1 simple and good 2 Cf. note on Sidney's The Nightingale the father of Philomela and Progne

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MELI. FAUST.

It is perhaps that sauncing bell 1

That tolls all in to heaven or hell:
And this is Love, as I hear tell. 6
Yet what is Love, I prithee say?
It is a work on holiday,
It is December match'd with May,
When lusty bloods in fresh array

Hear ten months after of the play:
And this is Love, as I hear say. 12
MELI. Yet what is Love, good shepherd,
sain 2?
FAUST. It is a sunshine mix'd with rain,
It is a tooth ache, or like 3 pain,
It is a game, where none doth gain;
The lass saith no, and would full
fain:

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And this is Love, as I hear sain. 18 Yet, shepherd, what is Love, I pray?

FAUST. It is a yea, it is a nay,

PHYL. Cynthia Endymion had refused,

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Preferring, preferring,

MELI.

My Corydon to play withal.

1 silk for a girdle or sash

A pretty kind of sporting fray,
It is a thing will soon away,

Then, nymphs, take vantage while

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Love in my bosom like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest.
Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he,
With pretty slight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,

The livelong night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if I but sing;
He lends me every lovely thing;
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting.
Whist, wanton, still ye!

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