From Eclogue ix

A poem by Michael Drayton


Gorbo, as thou cam'st this waye
By yonder little hill,
Or as thou through the fields didst straye
Sawst thou my Daffadill?

Shee's in a frock of Lincolne greene
The colour maides delight
And neuer hath her beauty seen
But through a vale of white.

Then Roses richer to behold
That trim vp louers bowers,
The Pansy and the Marigould
Tho Phoebus Paramours.

Gorbo. Thou well describ'st the Daffadill
It is not full an hower
Since by the spring neare yonder hill
I saw that louely flower.

Batte. Yet my faire flower thou didst not meet,
Nor news of her didst bring,
And yet my Daffadill more sweete,
Then that by yonder spring.

Gorbo. I saw a shepheard that doth keepe
In yonder field of Lillies,
Was making (as he fed his sheepe)
A wreathe of Daffadillies.

Batte. Yet Gorbo thou delud'st me stil
My flower thou didst not see,
For know my pretie Daffadill
Is worne of none but me.

To shew it selfe but neare her seate,
No Lilly is so bould,
Except to shade her from the heate,
Or keepe her from the colde:

Gorbo. Through yonder vale as I did passe,
Descending from the hill,
I met a smerking bony lasse,
They call her Daffadill:

Whose presence as along she went,
The prety flowers did greet,
As though their heads they downward bent,
With homage to her feete.

And all the shepheards that were nie,
From toppe of euery hill,
Vnto the vallies lowe did crie,
There goes sweet Daffadill.

Gorbo. I gentle shepheard, now with ioy
Thou all my flockes dost fill,
That's she alone kind shepheards boy,
Let vs to Daffadill.

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