Ne can I finde salue for my sore, loue is a curelesse sorrow. And though my bale with death I bought, hey hoe heauie cheere: (55) Yet should thilke lasse not from my thought, so you may buy gold too deere.
But whether in painfull loue I pine, hey hoe pinching paine: Or thriue in wealth, she shall be mine, (60) but if thou can her obtaine. And if for gracelesse greefe I dye hey hoe gracelesse greefe: Witnesse, she slew me with her eye, let thy folly be the preefe.
(65) And you that saw it, simple sheepe, hey hoe the faire flocke: For priefe thereof my death shall weepe, and moane with many a mocke. +So learn’d I loue on a holy-Eue, (70) hey hoe holy-day: That euer since my hart did greeue, now endeth our Roundelay.
FINIS. Edm. Spencer.