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They wounded were, and bled full sore,

For breath they both did fand, And leaning on their swordes awhile,

Quoth Tarquine, Hold thy hand,

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And like a knight, that I did hate :

Soe that thou be not hee, I will deliver all the reft,

And eke accord with thee .

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THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS

LOVE.
TIVE with me, and be my love,

And we wil all the pleasures prove
That hils and vallies, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

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A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

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. But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb,
And all complain of cares to come.

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