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Sweete Philomele the bird, +that hath the heauenly throat, Doth now alas not once affoord recording of a noate.
(25) The flowers haue had a frost each hearbe hath lost her sauour: And Phillida the faire hath lost the comfort of her fauour.
Now all these carefull sights, (30) so kill me in conceit: That how to hope vpon delights it is but meere deceite.
And therefore my sweete Muse that knowest what helpe is best: (35) Doe now thy heauenly cunning vse, to set my heart at rest.
And in a dreame bewraywhat fate shall be my friend: Whether my life shall still decay, (40) or when my sorrow end.

FINIS. N. Breton.