From England's Helicon

A poem by Michael Drayton

Faire Loue rest thee heere,
Neuer yet was morne so cleere,
Sweete be not vnkinde,
Let me thy fauour finde,
Or else for loue I die.

Harke this pretty bubling spring,
How it makes the Meadowes ring,
Loue now stand my friend,
Heere let all sorrow end,
And I will honour thee.

See where little Cupid lyes,
Looking babies in her eyes.
Cupid helpe me now,
Lend to me thy bowe,
To wound her that wounded me.

Heere is none to see or tell,
All our flocks are feeding by,
This Banke with Roses spred,
Oh it is a dainty bed,
Fit for my Loue and me.

Harke the birds in yonder Groaue,
How they chaunt vnto my Loue,
Loue be kind to me,
As I haue beene to thee,
For thou hast wonne my hart.

Calme windes blow you faire,

Rock her thou gentle ayre,
O the morne is noone,
The euening comes too soone,
To part my Loue and me.

The Roses and thy lips doo meete,
Oh that life were halfe so sweete,
Who would respect his breath,
That might die such a death,
Oh that life thus might die.

All the bushes that be neere,
With sweet Nightingales beset,
Hush sweete and be still,
Let them sing their fill,
There's none our ioyes to let.

Sunne why doo'st thou goe so fast?
Oh why doo'st thou make such hast?
It is too early yet,
So soone from ioyes to flit
Why art thou so vnkind?

See my little Lambkins runne,
Looke on them till I haue done,
Hast not on the night,
To rob me of her light,
That liue but by her eyes.

Alas, sweete Loue, we must depart,
Harke, my dogge begins to barke,
Some bodie's comming neere,
They shall not find vs heere,
For feare of being chid.

Take my Garland and my Gloue,
Weare it for my sake my Loue,
To morrow on the greene,
Thou shalt be our Sheepheards Queene,
Crowned with Roses gay.