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 Who would not this face admire? Who would not this saint adore? Who would not this sight desire, Though he thought to see no more?

O, fair eyes, yet let me see, One good look, and I am gone: Look on me, for I am he, Thy poor silly Corydon.

Thou that art the shepherds' queen. Look upon thy silly swain; By thy comfort have been seen Dead men brought to life again.

Phyllis, if a silly swain May sue to thee for grace, See not thy loving shepherd slain With looking on thy face; But think what power thou hast got Upon my flock and me; Thou seest they now regard me not, But all do follow thee. And if I have so far presumed, With prying in thine eyes, Yet let not comfort be consumed That in thy pity lies; But as thou art that Phyllis fair, That fortune favour gives, So let not love die in despair That in thy favour lives. The deer do browse upon the briar, The birds do pick the cherries; And will not Beauty grant Desire One handful of her berries?