All the bushes that be neere,
With sweet Nightingales beset,
Hush sweete and be still,
Let them sing their fill,
40There'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,
50That 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,
60Crowned with Roses gay.
Mich. Drayton.