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Montanus praise of his faire Phæbe.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Montanus praise of his faire Phæbe.

Phæbe sate,
Sweete she sate,
sweete sate Phæbe when I saw her,
White her brow
Coy her eye,
brow and eye, how much you please me?
Words I spent,
Sighs I sent,
sighs and words could neuer draw her,
Oh my Loue,
Thou art lost,
since no sight could euer ease thee.
Phæbe sate
By a Fount,
sitting by a Fount I spide her,
Sweete her touch,
Rare her voyce,
touch and voyce, what may distaine you?


As she sung,
I did sigh,
And by sighs whilst that I tride her,
Oh mine eyes
You did loose,
her first sight whose want did paine you.
Phœbes flocks
White as wooll,
yet were Phœbes lookes more whiter,
Phœbes eyes
Doue-like mild,
Doue-like eyes both mild and cruell,
Montane sweares
In your Lamps,
he will die for to delight her,
Phœbe yeeld
Or I die,
shall true harts be fancies fuell?
FINIS.
Thom. Lodge.