Nay, then I see, sweet nymph, thou art in love,
And loving, dotes; and doting, dost commend
Foul to be fair; this oft do lovers prove;
I wish him fairer, or thy love an end.
GALATEA
Doris, I love not, yet I hardly bear
Disgraceful terms, which you have spoke in scorn.
You are not loved; and that's the cause I fear;
For why? My love of Jove himself was born.
Feeding his sheep of late amidst this plain,
Whenas we nymphs did sport us on the shore,
He scorned you all, my love for to obtain;
That grieved your hearts; I knew as much before.
Nay, smile not, nymphs, the truth I only tell,
For few can brook that others should excel.
DORIS
Should I envy that blind did you that spite?
Or that your shape doth please so foul a groom?
The shepherd thought of milk, you looked so white;
The clown did err, and foolish was his doom.
Your look was pale, and so his stomach fed;
But far from fair, where white doth want his red.
GALATEA
Though pale my look, yet he my love did crave,
And lovely you, unliked, unloved I view;
It's better far one base than none to have;
Your fair is foul, to whom there's none will sue.
My love doth tune his love unto his harp.
His shape is rude, but yet his wit is sharp.
DORIS
Leave off, sweet nymph, to grace a worthless clown.
He itched with love, and then did sing or say;
The noise was such as all the nymphs did frown,
And well suspected that some ass did bray.
The woods did chide to hear this ugly sound
The prating echo scorned for to repeat;
This grisly voice did fear the hollow ground,
Whilst artless fingers did his harpstrings beat.
Two bear-whelps in his arms this monster bore,
With these new puppies did this wanton play;
Their skins was rough but yet your loves was more;
He fouler was and far more fierce than they.
I cannot choose, sweet nymph, to think, but smile
That some of us thou fear'st will thee beguile.