[From the Edition of 1605]

From Eclogue ij

    Then this great Vniuerse no lesse,
    Can serue her prayses to expresse: 
    Betwixt her eies the poles of Loue,
    The host of heauenly beautyes moue,
    Depainted in their proper stories,
    As well the fixd as wandring glories,
    Which from their proper orbes not goe,
    Whether they gyre swift or slowe: 
    Where from their lips, when she doth speake,
    The musick of those sphears do breake, 10
    Which their harmonious motion breedeth: 
    From whose cheerfull breath proceedeth: 
    That balmy sweetnes that giues birth
    To euery ofspring of the earth. 
    Her shape and cariage of which frame
    In forme how well shee beares the same,
    Is that proportion heauens best treasure,
    Whereby it doth all poyze and measure,
    So that alone her happy sight
    Conteynes perfection and delight. 20

From Eclogue ij

    Vppon a bank with roses set about,
    Where pretty turtles ioyning bil to bill,
    And gentle springs steale softly murmuring out
    Washing the foote of pleasures sacred hill: 
    There little loue sore wounded lyes,
    His bowe and arowes broken,
    Bedewd with teares from Venus eyes
    Oh greeuous to be spoken.

    Beare him my hart slaine with her scornefull eye
    Where sticks the arrowe that poore hart did kill, 10
    With whose sharp pile request him ere he die,
    About the same to write his latest will,
    And bid him send it backe to mee,
    At instant of his dying,
    That cruell cruell shee may see
    My faith and her denying.

    His chappell be a mournefull Cypresse Shade,
    And for a chauntry Philomels sweet lay,
    Where prayers shall continually be made
    By pilgrim louers passing by that way. 20
    With Nymphes and shepheards yearly moane
    His timeles death beweeping,
    In telling that my hart alone
    Hath his last will in keeping.

[From the Edition of 1606]

From Eclogue vij

    Now fye vpon thee wayward loue,
    Woe to Venus which did nurse thee,
    Heauen and earth thy plagues doe proue,
    Gods and men haue cause to curse thee. 
    What art thou but th’ extreamst madnesse,
    Natures first and only error
    That consum’st our daies in sadnesse,
    By the minds Continuall terror: 
    Walking in Cymerian blindnesse,
    In thy courses voy’d of reason. 10
    Sharp reproofe thy only kindnesse,
    In thy trust the highest treason? 
    Both the Nymph and ruder swaine,
    Vexing with continuall anguish,
    Which dost make the ould complaine