Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

MY Phyllis hath the morning sun,

At first to look upon her;

And Phyllis hath morn-waking birds

Her risings for to honour.

My Phyllis hath prime-feathered flowers

That smile when she treads on them;

And Phyllis hath a gallant flock

That leaps since she doth own them.

But Phyllis hath so hard a heart,

Alas that she should have it,

As yields no mercy to desart,

Nor grace to those that crave it.

Sweet sun, when thou look’st on,

Pray her regard my moan;

Sweet birds, when you sing to her,

To yield some pity, woo her;

Sweet flowers whenas she treads on,

Tell her, her beauty deads one,

And if in life her love she nill agree me,

Pray her before I die she will come see me.