(5) Sweete Loue be gone a while, thou knowest my heauines: Beauty is borne but to beguile, my hart of happines.
See how my little flocke (10) that lou’d to feede on hie: Doo headlong tumble downe the Rocke, and in the Vallie die.
The bushes and the trees that were so fresh and greene: (15) Doo all their dainty colour leese, and not a leafe is seene.
The Black-bird and the Thrush, that made the woods to ring: With all the rest, are now at hush, (20) and not a noate they sing.
Sweete Philomele + the bird, that hath the heauenly throate, Dooth now alas not once affoord recording of a noate.
(25) The flowers haue had a frost each hearbe hath lost her sauour: And Phillida the faire hath lost, the comfort of her fauour.
Now all these carefull sights, (30) so kill me in conceite: That how to hope vpon delights it is but meere deceite.