My Phillis hath the morninge Sunne, <br /> at first to looke upon her: <br />And Phillis hath morne-waking birds, <br /> her risinge still to honour. <br />My Phillis hath prime-featherd flowres, <br /> that smile when she treads on them: <br />And Phillis hath a gallant flocke, <br /> that leapes since she dooth owne them. <br />But Phillis hath too hard a hart, <br /> alas, that she should have it: <br />It yeelds no mercie to desert, <br /> nor grace to those that crave it. <br />Sweete Sunne, when thou look'st on, <br /> pray her regard my moane! <br />Sweete birds, when you sing to her, <br /> to yeeld some pitty, woo her! <br />Sweet flowers that she treads on, <br /> tell her, her beauty deads one. <br />And if in life her love she nill agree me, <br />Pray her before I die, she will come see me. <br /> <br /> <br />Finis.<br /><br />Sir Edward Dyer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-phillis-the-faire-sheeperdesse/
