AMPHRISA

But how can these disgusts be remedied, Which Reason never yet could comprehend? That's a physic all prescribe, But few or none does follow. Pray what is't? You have prevailed, For I am now your Patient; and entreat you, Like skilled Physicians, study for my health. Nay pray prescribe. It's said of all Physicians What good comes by their Physic, the Sun sees: But in their art, if they have bade success, That the earth covers. Howsoever I suffer, You blameless are. Howsoever I am prepared. But one speak: The medicine that's proposed of contraries, Can never breed peace of mind. Make this apparent. It's only by your Grace and goodness We breathe and live. 'Tis our fear; A life that is so mean, so ill expressed As needs it must be, (if imposed on us) May make you rather loath it. Give not our simple truth, and fear to offend, A character we know not (gracious Queen) But howsoever, if you make us faulty, You have the power to pardon. Then thus, Madam. We that have known no greater state Than this we live in, praise our fate: For Courtly silks in cares are spent, When Countries russet breeds content. The power of Sceptres we admire; But sheep-bookes for our use desire. Simple and low is our condition; For here with us is no ambition. We with the Sun our flocks unfold, Whose rising makes their fleeces gold. "Our music from the birds we borrow; "They bidding us, we them, good morrow. Your highness may command. Our habits are but course and plain, Yet they defend from wind and rain. As warm too, in and equal eye As those be, stained in Scarlet die. Those that have plenty wear (we see) But one at once; and so do we. If we sometime the Willow wear, By subtle Swains that dare forswear. We wonder whence it comes, and fear, the have been at Court, and learned it there. If any Lady then shall please, Whose cheek looks pale through my disease, By any faithless servant, or false friend, (Being cured myself) this I can give or lend. Yes royal Princess, as we sing and speak, After such rural fashion. I was thinking, why Parrasius, drawing Youth, Made Love to tickle one side with a feather, To move a smile; and with the other hand To sting it with a Scorpion. Then it seems, My story's told aforehand. And none pity me? Is there one, To whom the cause of my disease is known, That can prescribe me cure for't? Some ease I find already, crown me then. Nor shall it, Alope, for from this hour, Hearts grief nor heads pain shall of me have power. I now have chaced hence sorrow.