XIV.

THE SHEPHERD'S ADDRESS TO HIS MUSE.

This poem, originally printed from the small MS. volume, mentioned above in No. X., has been improved by a more perfect copy in _England's Helicon_, where the author is discovered to be _N. Breton_.

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Good Muse, rocke me aslepe With some sweete harmony: This wearie eyes is not to kepe Thy wary company.

Sweete Love, begon a while, Thou seest my heavines: 5 Beautie is borne but to beguyle My harte of happines.

See howe my little flocke, That lovde to feede on highe, 10 Doe headlonge tumble downe the rocke, And in the valley dye.

The bushes and the trees, That were so freshe and greene, Doe all their deintie colors leese, 15 And not a leafe is seene.

The blacke birde and the thrushe, That made the woodes to ringe, With all the rest, are now at hushe, And not a note they singe. 20

Swete Philomele, the birde That hath the heavenly throte, Doth nowe, alas! not once afforde Recordinge of a note.

The flowers have had a frost, 25 The herbs have loste their savoure; And Phillida the faire hath lost "For me her wonted" favour.

Thus all these careful sights, So kill me in conceit; 30 That now to hope upon delights, It is but meere deceite.

And therefore, my sweete Muse, That knowest what helpe is best, Doe nowe thy heavenlie conninge use 35 To sett my harte at rest:

And in a dreame bewraie What fate shal be my frende; Whether my life shall still decaye, Or when my sorrowes ende. 40

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