And the young to pyne and languishe,
    Who thee keepes his care doth nurse,
    That seducest all to folly,
    Blessing, bitterly doest curse,
    Tending to destruction wholly:  20
    Thus of thee as I began,
    So againe I make an end,
    Neither god neither man,
    Neither faiery, neither feend.

BATTE.

What is Loue but the desire
Of the thing that fancy pleaseth? 
A holy and resistlesse fier,
Weake and strong alike that ceaseth,
Which not heauen hath power to let,
Nor wise nature cannot smother, 30
Whereby Phoebus doth begette
On the vniuersall mother. 
That the euerlasting Chaine,
Which together al things tied,
And vnmooued them retayne
And by which they shall abide: 
That concent we cleerely find,
All things doth together drawe,
And so strong in euery kinde,
Subiects them to natures law. 40
Whose hie virtue number teaches
In which euery thing dooth mooue,
From the lowest depth that reaches
To the height of heauen aboue: 
Harmony that wisely found,
When the cunning hand doth strike
Whereas euery amorous sound,
Sweetly marryes with his like. 
The tender cattell scarcely take
From their damm’s the feelds to proue, 50
But ech seeketh out a make,
Nothing liues that doth not loue: 
Not soe much as but the plant
As nature euery thing doth payre,
By it if the male it want
Doth dislike and will not beare: 
Nothing then is like to loue
In the which all creatures be. 
From it nere let me remooue
Nor let it remooue from me. 60

From Eclogue ix

BATTE.

Gorbo, as thou cam’st this waye By yonder little hill, Or as thou through the fields didst straye Sawst thou my Daffadill?

Shee’s in a frock of Lincolne greene
The colour maides delight
And neuer hath her beauty seen
But through a vale of white.

Then Roses richer to behold
That trim vp louers bowers, 10
The Pansy and the Marigould
Tho Phoebus Paramours.

Gorbo. Thou well describ’st the Daffadill
It is not full an hower
Since by the spring neare yonder hill
I saw that louely flower.

Batte. Yet my faire flower thou didst not meet,
Nor news of her didst bring,
And yet my Daffadill more sweete,
Then that by yonder spring. 20

Gorbo. I saw a shepheard that doth keepe
In yonder field of Lillies,
Was making (as he fed his sheepe)
A wreathe of Daffadillies.

Batte. Yet Gorbo thou delud’st me stil
My flower thou didst not see,
For know my pretie Daffadill
Is worne of none but me.