(15) With the sound of my out-cryes, moue her to pittie?
The deepe falls of fayre Riuers, and the windes turning: Are the true musique giuers, (20) vnto my mourning.
Where my flocks daily feeding, pining for sorrow: At their maisters hart bleeding, shot with Loues arrow.
(25) From her eyes to my hart-string, was the shaft launced: It made all the woods to ring, by which it glaunced.
When this Nimph had vsde me so, (30) then she did hide her: Haplesse I did Daphne know; haplesse I spyed her.
Thus Turtle-like I waild me, for my loues loosing: (35) Daphnes trust thus did faile me, woe worth such chusing.
FINIS. M. H. Nowell.