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 the bower there is a chair, <br />Fringed 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 quae 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 />Make him live that, dying long, <br />Never durst for comfort seek: <br />Thou shalt hear so sweet a song <br />Never shepherd sung the like.<br /><br />Nicholas Breton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-pastoral-3/
