My Phyllis hath the morning sun
At first to look upon her:
And Phyllis hath morn-waking birds
Her rising still to honour.
My Phyllis hath prime feathered flowers
That smile when she treads on them:
And Phyllis hath a gallant flock
That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phyllis hath too hard a heart,
Alas, that she should have it!
It yields no mercy to desert
Nor peace to those that crave it.
Sweet Sun, when thou look'st on,
Pray her regard my moan!
Sweet birds, when you sing to her,
To yield some pity woo her!
Sweet flowers, that she treads on,
Tell her, her beauty dreads one;
And if in life her love she'll not agree me,
Pray her before I die, she will come see me.
Sir Edward Dyer.