Batt.  Gorbo, as thou cam'st this way,
   By yonder little hill,
   Or as thou through the fields didst stray,
   Saw'st thou my Daffodil?

   She's in a frock of Lincoln green
   Which colour likes her sight,
   And never hath her beauty seen
   But through a veil of white;

   Than roses richer to behold,
   That trim up lovers' bowers,
   The pansy and the marigold,
   Though Phoebus' paramours.

Gorbo.  Thou well describ'st the daffodil ;
   It is not full an hour
   Since by the spring, near yonder hill,
   I saw that lovely flower.

Batt.  Yet my fair flower thou didst not meet,
   Nor news of her didst bring,
   And yet my Daffodil's more sweet
   Than that by yonder spring.

Gorbo.   I saw a shepherd that doth keep
   In yonder field of lilies,
   Was making, as he fed his sheep,
   A wreath of daffodillies.

Batt.   Yet, Gorbo, thou delud'st me still,
   My flower thou didst not see,
   For know, my pretty Daffodil
   Is worn of none but me.

   To show itself but near her seat
   No lily is so bold,
   Except to shade her from the heat,
   Or keep her from the cold.

Gorbo.   Through yonder vale as I did pass,
   Descending from the hill,
   I met a smirking bonny lass,
   They call her Daffodil;

   Whose presence, as along she went,
   The pretty flowers did greet,
   As though their heads they downward bent,
   With homage to her feet.

   And all the shepherds that were nigh,
   From top of every hill,
   Unto the valleys loud did cry,
   'There goes sweet Daffodil.'

Batt.   Ay, gentle shepherd, now with joy
   Thou all my flocks dost fill,
   That's she alone, kind shepherd's boy,
   Let us to Daffodil.