(5) Shall I say what doth grieue me? Louers lament it: Daphne will not relieue me, late I repent it.
Shall I die, shall I perish, (10) through her vnkindnesse? Loue vntaught loue to cherish, sheweth his blindnesse.
Shall the hills, shall the valleyes, the fields the Citie, (15) With the sound of my out-cries, moue her to pittie?
The deepe falls of faire Riuers, and the windes turning: Are the true Musicke giuers (20) vnto my mourning.
Where my Flockes daily feeding, pining for sorrow: At their Maisters heart bleeding, shot with Loues arrow.
(25) From her eyes to my heart-string, was the shaft launced: It made all the Woods to ring by which it glaunced.