SONNET. XV.
[H] fairest Ganymede, disdaine me not,
Though silly Sheepeheard I, presume to loue thee,
Though my harsh songs and Sonnets cannot moue thee,
Yet to thy beauty is my loue no blot.
Apollo, Ioue, and many Gods beside,
S' daind not the name of cuntry shepheards swains
Nor want we pleasure, though we take some pains,
We liue contentedly: a thing call'd pride,