Whom spightfull Loue alas hath slaine, through-girt with many a wound. (65) Oh happy be ye beasts wild, that heere your pasture takes: I see that ye be not beguild, of these your faithfull makes. The Hart he feedeth by the Hind, (70) the Bucke hard by the Doe: The Turtle-Doue is not vnkind to him that loues her so. The Ewe she hath by her the Ram, the young Cowe hath the Bull: (75) The Calfe with many a lusty Lamb, doo feede their hunger full. But well-away that Nature wrought, thee Phillida so faire: For I may say that I haue bought (80) thy beauty all too deare. What reason is’t that cruelty with beauty should haue part? Or else that such great tirannie, should dwell in womans hart? (85) I see therefore to shape my death, she cruelly is prest: To th’end that I may want my breath, my dayes beene at the best. Oh Cupid graunt this my request, (90) and doo not stop thine eares: That she may feele within her brest, the paine of my despaires. Of Corin that is carelesse, that she may craue her fee: (95) As I haue done in great distresse, that lou’d her faithfully. But since that I shall die her slaue, her slaue and eke her thrall: Write you my friends vpon my graue, (100) this chaunce that is befall.