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. When as 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 Art-less fingers did his harp-strings beat. Two bear whelps in his arms this Monster bore: With these new puppies did this Wanton play! Their skins were rough; but yet your loves were more. He fouler was and far more fierce than they. I cannot choose, sweet Nymph! to think, but smile, That some of us thou fearest, will thee beguile.
Galatea.
Scorn not my Love! until it can be known That you have one that's better, of your own.