I with Ewes and Lambs confused, All vnto our deaths declining.
Silence, leaue thy Caue obscured, (50) Daigne a dolefull Swaine to tender: Though disdaines I haue endured. Yet I am no deepe offender.
Phillips Sonne can with his finger Hide his scarre, it is so little: +(55) Little sinne a day to linger, Wise men wander in a tittle.
Trifles yet my Swaine haue turned, Though my Sunne he neuer showeth: Though I weepe, I am not mourned, (60) Though I want, no pittie groweth.
Yet for pittie, loue my Muses, Gentle silence be their couer: They must leaue their wonted vses, Since I leaue to be a Louer.
(65) They shall liue with thee enclosed, I will loath my Pen and Paper: Art shall neuer be supposed, Sloth shall quench the watching Taper.