A Shepherd's Idyllion

You shepherds which on hillocks sit,
Like princes in their thrones;
And guide your flocks, which else would flit,
Your flocks of little ones;
Good kings have not disdained it.
But shepherds have been named;
A sheep-hook is a sceptre fit
For people well reclaimed.
The shepherd's life so honour'd is and praised
That kings less happy seem, though higher raised.

The summer sun hath gilded fair
With morning rays the mountains;
The birds do carol in the air,
And naked nymphs in fountains;
The sylvans in their shagged hair,
With hamadryads trace;
The shady satyrs make a quire,
Which rocks with echoes grace.
All breathe delight, all solace in the season:
Not now to sing, were enemy to reason.

Cosma, my love, and more than so,
The life of my affections,
Nor life alone but lady too.
And queen of their directions;
Cosma my love is fair, you know.
And, which you shepherds know not.
Is (Sophy said) thence called so;
But names her beauty show not.
Yet hath the world no better name than she:
And than the world no fairer thing can be.

The sun upon her forehead stands,
Or jewel sun-like glorious;
Her forehead wrought with Jove's own hands,
For heavenly white notorious:
Her golden locks like Hermus' sands,
(Or than bright Hermus brighter, )
A spangled caul binds in with bands,
Than silver morning lighter:
And if the planets are the chief in skies.
No other stars than planets are her eyes.

Her cheek, her lip, fresh cheek more fresh
Than self-blown buds of roses;
Rare lip, more red than those of flesh,
Which thousand sweets encloses;
Sweet breath, which all things doth refresh,
And words than breath far sweeter:
Cheek firm, lip firm, not frail nor nesh,
As substance which is fleeter:
In praise do not surmount, although in placing
Her crystal neck, round breasts, and arms embracing.

The thorough-shining air, I ween,
Is not so perfect clear,
As is the sky of her fair skin.
Whereon no spots appear.
The parts which ought not to be seen,
For sovereign worth excel:
Her thighs with azure branched been,
And all in her are well.
Long ivory hands, legs straighter than the pine,
Well shapen feet, but virtue most divine.

Nor clothed like a shepherdess,
But rather like a queen;
Her mantle doth the form express.
Of all which may be seen.
Robe fitter for an emperess
Than for a shepherd's love.
Robe fit alone for such a lass
As emperors doth move.
Robe which heaven's queen, the pride of her own brother.

Would grace herself with, or with such another.
Who ever (and who else but Jove?)
Embroidered the same,
He knew the world, and what did move
In all the mighty frame.
So well (belike his skill to prove)
The counterfeits he wrought:
Of wood-gods and of every grove.

And all which else was ought.
Is there a beast, a bird, a fish worth note?
Than that he drew and pictured in her coat.
A veil of lawn like vapour thin.
Unto her ankle trails;
Through which the shapes discerned bin
As to and fro it sails.
Shapes both of men, who never lin
To search her wonders out,
Of monsters and of gods a-kin
Which her empale about.
A little world her flowing garment seems:
And who but as a bonder thereof deems?

For here and there appear forth towers
Among the chalky downs.
Cities among the country bowers
Which smiling sunshine crowns:
Her metal buskins deck'd with flowers.
As th' earth when frosts are gone.
Besprinkled are with orient showers
Of hail and pebble stone:
Her feature peerless, peerless her attire,
I can but love her love with zeal entire.

Oh! who can sing her beauties best,
Or that remains unsung?
Do thou, Apollo,- tune the rest:
Unworthy is my tongue.
To gaze on her is to be blest,
So wondrous fair her face is;
Her fairness cannot be exprest
In goddesses nor graces.
I love my love, the goodly work of nature:
Admire her face, but more admire her stature.

On thee (O Cosma) will I gaze,
And read thy beauties ever:
Delighting in the blessed maze,
Which can be ended never.
For in the lustre of thy rays
Appears thy parent's brightness:
Who himself infinite displays
In thee his proper greatness.
My song must end, but never my desire,
For Cosma's face is Theorello's fire.