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The copy here given of Marlowe's Song, is printed from England's Helicon, 1600; the letters W. E. P. & R., specify the variations as printed by Isaak Walton, George Ellis, Bishop Percy, and Ritson.
Come live with
and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That vallies, groves,* hills and fields,
Woods, or steepie mountaines yields.
Andt we will sit vpon the rockes,
Seeing I the shepheards feede their flockes $
By shallow riuers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sings || madrigalls.
* That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.--Ellis and Percy.
That vallies, groves or hills and fields,
And all the steepy mountain yields.-Ritson.
That valleys, groves, or hills or field,
Or woods, and steepy mountains yield.- WALTOx. # There, E. & P. Where, Walton.
# And see, E. & P. & W. Cur, W.
I Sing, R. E. & P.
And I will * make thee beds of roses,
Andt a thousand fragrant poesies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Imbroydered all with leaves of mirtle.
A gowne made of the finest wooll,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Faire lined slipperst for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:
A belt of straw and iuie buds,
With corall clasps and amber studs.
And if these pleasures may thee moue,
Come $ live with me and be my loue.||
The Shepheard swaines shall dance and sing
For thy delights | each May-morning;
If these delights thy mind may moue,
Then liue with me and be
THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD.
FROM “ ENGLAND'S HELICON," 1600,
If all * the world and loue were young,
And truth in every Shepheards tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me moue
To live with thee and be thy loue.
Time drives the flocks from field to foldt
The riuers rage and rockes grow cold,
And Philomellt becometh dombe
The rest $ complaines of cares to come.
The flowers doe fade and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yeelds
A hony tongue a heart of gall,
Is fancies spring, but sorrowes fall.
Thy gownes, thy shooes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle and thy posies,
Soone break, soone wither, soone forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw, and iuie buds,
Thy corall clasps, and amber studs,
All these in me no meanes can moue
To come to thee, and be thy loue. Il
† But time drives flocks from field to fold, W. & P.
$ And age, W. And all complain, P. | Here Isaak Walton adds this verse :-
What should we talk of dainties then,
of better meat than's fit for men?
These are but vain : that's only good
Which God hath blest, and sent for food.