Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/499
One throws milk on my clothes, T'other plays with my nose; What wanting signs are those? Phillada flouts me'
I cannot work nor sleep
At all in season: Love wounds my heart so deep
Without all reason. I 'gin to pine away
In my love's shadow, Like as a fat beast may,
Penn'd in a meadow. I shall be dead, I fear, Within this thousand year: And all for that my dear
Phillada flouts me.
WOULD I were where I would be' There would I be where I am not* For where I am would I not be, And where I would be I can not.
Chloris in the Snow
I SAW fair Chloris walk alone, When feather'd ram came softly down, As Jove descending from his Tower To court her in a silver shower.