Words I spent, Sighs I sent, sighs and words could neuer draw her, (10) Oh my Loue, Thou art lost, since no sight could euer ease thee.
Phæbe sate By a Fount, (15) sitting by a Fount I spide her, Sweete her touch, Rare her voyce, touch and voyce, what may distaine you? As she sung, (20) I did sigh, And by sighs whilst that I tride her, Oh mine eyes You did loose, her first sight whose want did paine you. (25) Phæbes Flocks White as wooll, yet were Phæbes lookes more whiter, Phæbes eyes Doue-like mild, (30) Doue-like eyes both mild and cruell, Montane sweares In your Lamps, he will die for to delight her, Phæbe yeeld (35) Or I die, shall true harts be fancies fuell?
FINIS. Thom. Lodge.