SONNET. XV.

A fairest Ganymede, disdaine me not,
     Though silly Sheepeheard I, presume to loue thee,
     Though my harsh songs & Sonnets cannot moue thee,
Yet to thy beauty is my loue no blot.
Apollo, Ioue, and many Gods, beside,
     S'daind not the name of cu~try shepheards swains,
     Nor want we pleasure, though we take some pains,
We liue contentedly: a thing call'd pride,
Which so corrupts the Court and euery place,
     (Each place I meane where learning is neglected,
     And yet of late, euen learnings selfe's infected)
I know not what it meanes, in any case:
     Wee onely (when Molorchus gins to peepe)
     Learne for to folde, and to vnfold our sheepe.