With sweet Nightingales beset, Hush sweete and be still, Let them sing their fill, (40) there’s none our ioyes to let.
Sunne why do’st thou goe so fast? Oh why do’st thou make such hast? It is too earely yet, So soone from ioyes to flit, (45) why art thou so vnkinde? See my little Lambkins runne, Looke on them till I haue done, Hast not on the night, To rob me of her sight, (50) that liue but by her eyes. Alas, sweet Loue, we must depart, Harke, my dogge begins to barke, Some bodie’s comming neere, They shall not finde vs heere, (55) for feare of being chid. Take my Garland and my Gloue, Weare it for my sake my Loue, To morrow on the greene, Thou shalt be our Shepheards Queene, (60) crowned with Roses gay.
FINIS. Mich. Drayton.