MY Phillis hath the morning sun At first to look upon her; And Phillis hath morn-waking birds Her risings still to honour. My Phillis hath prime-feather'd flowers, That smile when she treads on them; And Phillis hath a gallant flock, That leaps since she doth own them. But Phillis hath too hard a heart, Alas that she should have it! It yields no mercy to desert, Nor grace to those that crave it. Sweet sun. when thou look'st on, Pray her regard my moan; Sweet birds. when you sing to her, To yield some pity woo her; Sweet flowers, whenas she treads on, Tell her, her beauty deads one; And if in life her love she nill agree me, Pray her, before I die she will come see me. |