¶ To his Flockes. +
B Vrst forth my teares, assist my forward griefe, And shew what paine imperious Loue prouokes Kinde tender Lambs lament Loues scant reliefe, And pine, since pensiue care my freedome yoakes, +(5) Oh pine, to see me pine, my tender Flockes.
Sad pining care, that neuer may haue peace, At Beauties gate, in hope of pittie knocks: But mercie sleepes, while deepe disdaines encrease, And Beautie hope in her faire bosome yoakes: (10) Oh grieue to heare my griefe, my tender Flockes.
Like to the windes my sighs haue winged beene, Yet are my sighs and sutes repaide with mocks: I pleade, yet she repineth at my teene, O ruthlesse rigour, harder then the Rockes, (15) That both the Shepheard kills, and his poore Flockes.