e and my faire flower,
That now is ripe and full of honey-berries;
Then would I leade thee to my pleasant bower,
Fild full of grapes, of mulberries, and cherries:
Then shouldst thou be my waspe or else my bee,
I would thy hive, and thou my honey, bee.

I would put amber bracelets on thy wrests,
Crownets of pearle about thy naked armes:
And when thou sitst at swilling Bacchus feasts
My lips with charmes should save thee from all harmes:
And when in sleepe thou tookst thy chiefest pleasure,
Mine eyes should gaze upon thine eyelids treasure.

And every morne by dawning of the day,
When Phoebus riseth with a blushing face,
Silvanus chappel-clarkes shall chaunt a lay,
And play thee hunts-up in thy resting place:
My coote thy chamber, my bosome thy bed
Shall be appointed for thy sleepy head.

And when it pleaseth thee to walke abroad,
Abroad into the fields to take fresh ayre,
The meades with Floras treasure should be strowde,
The mantled meaddowes, and the fields so fayre.
And by a silver well with golden sands
Ile sit me downe, and wash thine yvory hands.

And in the sweltring heate of summer time,
I would make cabinets for thee, my love;
Sweet-smelling arbours made of eglantine
Should be thy shrine, and I would be thy dove.
Cool cabinets of fresh greene laurell boughs
Should shadow us, ore-set with thicke-set eughes.

Or if thou list to bathe thy naked limbs
Within the cristall of a pearle-bright brooke,
Paved with dainty pibbles to the brims,
Or cleare, wherein thyselfe thyselfe mayst looke;
Weele goe to Ladon, whose still trickling noyse
Will lull thee fast asleepe amids thy joyes.

Or if thoult goe unto the river side,
To angle for the sweet freshwater fish,
Arm'd with thy implements that will abide,
Thy rod, hooke, line, to take a dainty dish;
Thy rods shall be of cane, thy lines of silke,
Thy hooks of silver, and thy bayts of milke.

Or if thou lov'st to hear sweet melodie,
Or pipe a round upon an oaten reede,
Or make thyselfe glad with some myrthfull glee,
Or play them musicke whilst thy flocke doth feede.
To Pans owne pype Ile helpe my lovely lad,
Pans golden pype, which he of Syrinx had.

Or if thou darst to climbe the highest trees
For apples, cherries, medlars, peares