Robert Greene (1558–1592)

THROUGH the shrubs as I can crack

For my lambs, little ones,

’Mongst many pretty ones,—

Nymphs I mean, whose hair was black

As the crow:

Like the snow

Her face and browès shined I ween!—

I saw a little one,

A bonny pretty one,

As bright, buxom, and as sheen

As was she

On her knee

That lulled the god, whose arrow warms

Such merry little ones,

Such fair-faced pretty ones

As dally in love’s chiefest harms:

Such was mine,

Whose grey eyne

Made me love. I gan to woo

This sweet little one,

This bonny pretty one.

I wooed hard a day or two,

Till she bade

‘Be not sad,

Woo no more, I am thine own,

Thy dearest little one,

Thy truest pretty one.’

Thus was faith and firm love shown,

As behoves

Shepherds’ loves.