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They stand still, and now feede not, As if they shar’d with thee: Greefe for this iniurie, (65) offred to true loue. Pretty Lambkins, how they moane, And in bleating seeme to groane, That any Sheepheards Swaine, Should cause their Mistres paine: (70) by affects remoue. If you looke but on the grasse, It’s not halfe so greene as ’twas: When I began my tale, But it is witherd pale, (75) all in meere remorce. Marke the Trees that brag’d euen now, Of each goodly greene-leau’d-bow, They seeme as blasted all, Ready for Winters fall, (80) such is true loues force.
The gentle murmur of the Springs, Are become contrary things, They haue forgot their pride, And quite forsake their glide, (85) as if charm’d they stand. And the flowers growing by, Late so fresh in euery eye, See how they hang the head, As on a suddaine dead, (90) dropping on the sand. The birds that chaunted it yer-while, Ere they hear’d of Corins guile, Sit as they were afraide, Or by some hap dismaide, (95) for this wrong to thee: H arke sweet Phil, how Philomell, +That was wont to sing so well, Iargles now in yonder bush,