Nicholas Breton
On a hill there grows a flower, Fair befall the dainty sweet! By that flower there is a bower,
Oh that I could write a story Of love's dealing with affection! How he makes the spirit sorry
A Report Song in a Dream, between a shepherd and his nymph Shall we go dance the hay? The hay? Never pipe could ever play
A silly shepherd lately sat Among a flock of sheep; Where musing long on this and that,
Love and my mistress were at strife Who had the greatest power on me: Betwixt them both, oh, what a life!
Come, little babe, come, silly soul, Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief, Born as I doubt to all our dole,
Good Muse, rock me asleep With some sweet harmony: The weary eye is not to keep
Sylvan Muses, can ye sing Of the beauty of the Spring? Have ye seen on earth that sun
Say that I should say I love ye, Would you say 'tis but a saying? But if Love in prayers move ye,
Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!), Was never morn so fair, There shone a sun, though not the sun
Sweet Phyllis, if a silly swain May sue to thee for grace, See not thy loving shepherd slain
Foolish love is only folly; Wanton love is too unholy; Greedy love is covetous;
In the merry month of May, In a morn by break of day, With a troop of damsels playing
The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold A kind of heaven in his authorities; The wealthy miser, in his mass of gold,
Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart, That hand that holds the heart of every eye, That wit that goes beyond all Nature's art,
