The flames of Aetna are not half so hot
      As is the fire which thy disdain hath bread. 
      Ah cruel fates, why do you then besot
      Poor Corin’s soul with love, when love is fled? 
    Either cause cruel Chloris to relent,
    Or let me die upon the wound she sent!

    VI

    You lofty pines, co-partners of my woe,
      When Chloris sitteth underneath your shade,
      To her those sighs and tears I pray you show,
      Whilst you attending I for her have made. 
    Whilst you attending, dropped have sweet balm
      In token that you pity my distress,
      Zephirus hath your stately boughs made calm. 
      Whilst I to you my sorrows did express,
    The neighbour mountains bended have their tops,
      When they have heard my rueful melody,
      And elves in rings about me leaps and hops,
      To frame my passions to their jollity. 
    Resounding echoes from their obscure caves,
    Reiterate what most my fancy craves.

    VII

    What need I mourn, seeing Pan our sacred king
      Was of that nymph fair Syrinx coy disdained? 
      The world’s great light which comforteth each thing,
      All comfortless for Daphne’s sake remained. 
    If gods can find no help to heal the sore
      Made by love’s shafts, which pointed are with fire,
      Unhappy Corin, then thy chance deplore,
      Sith they despair by wanting their desire. 
    I am not Pan though I a shepherd be,
      Yet is my love as fair as Syrinx was. 
      My songs cannot with Phoebus’ tunes agree,
      Yet Chloris’ doth his Daphne’s far surpass. 
    How much more fair by so much more unkind,
    Than Syrinx coy, or Daphne, I her find!

    VIII

    No sooner had fair Phoebus trimmed his car,
      Being newly risen from Aurora’s bed,
      But I in whom despair and hope did war,
      My unpenned flock unto the mountains led. 
    Tripping upon the snow-soft downs I spied
      Three nymphs more fairer than those beautys three
      Which did appear to Paris on mount Ide. 
      Coming more near, my goddess I there see;
    For she the field-nymphs oftentimes doth haunt,
      To hunt with them the fierce and savage boar;
      And having sported virelays they chaunt,
      Whilst I unhappy helpless cares deplore. 
    There did I call to her, ah too unkind! 
    But tiger-like, of me she had no mind.

    IX

    Unto the fountain where fair Delia chaste
      The proud Acteon turned to a hart,
      I drove my flock, that water sweet to taste,
      ’Cause from the welkin Phoebus ’gan depart. 
    There did I see the nymph whom I admire,
      Rememb’ring her locks, of which the yellow hue
      Made blush the beauties of her curled wire,
      Which Jove himself with wonder well might view;