EnglandsHelicon F1r


(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.
And therefore my sweete Muse that knowest what helpe is best, (35) Doo now thy heauenly cunning vse, to set my hart at rest.