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 And Phyllida doth walk the meads, Though Corydon be he that mows them: The little lambs are Phyllis' love, Though Corydon is he that feeds them, The gardens fair are Phyllis' ground, Though Corydon is he that weeds them. Since then that Phyllis only is The only shepherd's only queen; And Corydon the only swain That only hath her shepherd been,— Though Phyllis keep her bower of state, Shall Corydon consume away? No, shepherd, no, work out the week, And Sunday shall be holiday.

a hill there grows a flower, Fair befall the dainty sweet! By that flower there is a bower, Where the heavenly Muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair, Fringèd all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fair That did ever eye behold.

It is Phyllis, fair and bright, She that is the shepherds' joy, She that Venus did despite, And did blind her little boy.

This is she, the wise, the rich, That the world desires to see; This is ipsa qua, the which There is none but only she.