Batte
Yet my fair flower thou didst not meet,
No news of her didst bring;
And yet my Daffodil's more sweet
Than that by yonder spring.
Gorbo
I saw a shepherd that doth keep
In yonder field of lilies
Was making (as he fed his sheep)
A wreath of daffodillies.
Batte
Yet, Gorbo, thou deludst me still,
My flower thou didst not see;
For know my pretty Daffodil
Is worn of none but me.
To show itself but near her feet
No lily is so bold,
Except to shade her from the heat,
Or keep her from the cold.
Gorbo
Through yonder vale as I did pass
Descending from the hill,
I met a smirking bonny lass;
They call her Daffodil,
Whose presence as along she went
The pretty flowers did greet,
As though their heads they downward bent
With homage to her feet,