I leese my life, in that each secret thought, Which I conceaue through wanton fond regard, (15) Doth make me say, that life auaileth nought, Where seruice cannot haue a due reward. I dare not name the Nimph that workes my smart, Though Loue hath grau’n her name within my |(hart.
FINIS. Tho. Watson.
¶ Montanus Sonnet to his faire Phæbe. +
A Turtle sate vpon a leauelesse tree, Mourning her absent pheare, With sad and sorrie cheare. About her wondring stood, (5) The Citizens of wood. And whilst her plumes she rents, And for her Loue laments: The stately trees complaine them, The birds with sorrow paine them. (10) Each one that doth her view, Her paines and sorrowes rue. But were the sorrowes knowne, That me hath ouer-throwne: Oh how would Phæbe sigh, if she did looke on mee?
(15) The loue-sicke Polipheme that could not see, Who on the barren shoare, His fortunes did deplore: And melteth all in mone, For Galatea gone, (20) And with his cries