Galatea

Doris, I love not, yet I hardly bear Disgraceful terms, which you have spoke in scorn. You are not loved; and that's the cause I fear; For why? My love of Jove himself was born. Feeding his sheep of late amidst this plain, Whenas we nymphs did sport us on the shore, He scorned you all, my love for to obtain; That grieved your hearts; I knew as much before. Nay, smile not, nymphs, the truth I only tell, For few can brook that others should excel.