He sang a passionate ditty; which done, he spake thus:—
Shep. Now, fairest, deign once to impart,
Did ever live so coy a lass
Who unto love was never moved?
Nymph. Yes, shepherd, she that hath the heart
And is resolved her life to pass
Neither to love or be beloved.
Shep. She senseless lives without affection.
Nymph. Yet happy lives without subjection.
Shep. To be pluck’d are roses blown,
To be mow’d are meadows grown [sown?],
Gems are made but to be shown,
And woman’s best—
Nymph. To keep her own.
Shep. Well, shepherdess, still hate to love me;
No scorn from my fix’d vow shall move me.
When sheep to finest grass have loathing,
When courtiers shall disdain rich clothing,
When shepherds shun their mayday’s sports,
Green sickness when ’tis rife in courts,—
O then, and not till then, I’ll hate
Beliza, my sole love and fate.
Nymph. When love in daughters shall ascend
For simple Piety’s sole end,
When any child her mother graces
With all she can, yet all defaces
In her fair thought the faith she oweth
(Though what she can she freely showeth);
Then, shepherd, mayst thou hope attend,
For then my hate shall have an end.
Shep. Thou’rt mine, Beliza; for behold
All the hopes thy wishes crave,
All the best the world can have,
Here these happy characters unfold;