On a hill there grows a flower, <br />Fair befall the dainty sweet! <br />By that flower there is a bower, <br />Where the heavenly Muses meet. <br /> <br />In that bower there is a chair, <br />Fringèd all about with gold, <br />Where doth sit the fairest fair <br />That did ever eye behold. <br /> <br />It is Phyllis, fair and bright, <br />She that is the shepherds' joy, <br />She that Venus did despite, <br />And did blind her little boy. <br /> <br />This is she, the wise, the rich, <br />That the world desires to see: <br />This is _ipsa quæ_, the which <br />There is none but only she. <br /> <br />Who would not this face admire? <br />Who would not this saint adore? <br />Who would not this sight desire, <br />Though he thought to see no more? <br /> <br />O, fair eyes, yet let me see, <br />One good look, and I am gone: <br />Look on me, for I am he, <br />Thy poor silly Corydon. <br /> <br />Thou that art the shepherds' queen, <br />Look upon thy silly swain; <br />By thy comfort have been seen <br />Dead men brought to life again.<br /><br />Nicholas Breton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-pastoral-of-phyllis-and-corydon/
