My beasts a-while your foode refraine, and harke your Heard-mans sound: Whom spightfull Loue alas hath slaine, through-girt with many a wound. (65) Oh happy be ye beasts wild, that here your Pasture takes: I see that ye be not beguild, of these your faithfull makes. The Hart he feedeth by the Hinde, (70) the Bucke hard by the Doe: The Turtle-Doue is not vnkinde to him that loues her so. The Ewe she hath by her the Ram, the young Cowe hath the Bull: (75) The Calfe with many a lusty Lamb, doe feede their hunger full. But well-away that Nature wrought, thee Phillida so faire: For I may say that I haue bought (80) thy beauty all too deere. What reason is’t that cruelty with beauty should haue part? Or else that such great tirannie, should dwell in womans hart? (85) I see therefore to shape my death, she cruelly is prest: To th’end that I may want my breath, my dayes beene at the best. Oh Cupid graunt this my request, (90) and doe not stop thine eares: That she may feele within her brest, the paine of my despaires.