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¶The Shepheard to the Flowers.
SWeet Ʋiolets (Loues Paradise) that spread
Your gracious odours, which you couched beare
Within your palie faces:
Ʋpon the gentle wing of some calme-breathing-winde
That playes amidst the Plaine,
If by the fauour of propitious starres you gaine
Such grace as in my Ladies bosome place to finde:
Be proud to touch those places.
And when her warmth your moysture forth doth weare,
Whereby her daintie parts are sweetly fed:
Your honours of the flowrie Meades I pray.
You pretty daughters of the Earth and Sunne:
With milde and seemely breathing straite display
My bitter sighs, that haue my hart vndone.
Ʋermillion Roses, that with new dayes rise
Display your crimson solds fresh locking faire,
Whose radiant bright, disgraces
The rich adorned rayes of roseate rising morne,
Ah if her Virgins hand
Doe pluck your pure, ere Phoebus view the land,
And vaile your gracious pompe in louely Natures scorne.
If chaunce my Mistresse traces
Fast by your flowers to take the Sommers ayre:
Then wofull blushing tempt her glorious eyes,
To spread their teares, Adonis death reporting,