Nicholas Breton (1545–1626)

ON a hill there grows a flower,

Fair befall the dainty sweet!

By that flower there is a bower,

Where the heavenly Muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair,

Fringèd all about with gold;

Where doth sit the fairest fair,

That did ever eye behold.

It is Phyllis fair and bright,

She that is the shepherds’ joy;

She that Venus did despite,

And did blind her little boy.

This is she, the wise, the rich,

And the world desires to see;

This is ipsa quae the which

There is none but only she.

Who would not this face admire?

Who would not this saint adore?

Who would not this sight desire,

Though he thought to see no more?

O, fair eyes! yet let me see,

One good look, and I am gone;

Look on me, for I am he,

Thy poor silly Corydon.

Thou that art the shepherd’s queen,

Look upon thy silly swain;

By thy comfort have been seen

Dead men brought to life again.