Worser then the rudest Thrush, (100) as it were not shee.
Phillida, who all this while Neither gaue a sigh or smile: Round about the field did gaze, As her wits were in a maze; (105) poore despised mayd. And reuiued at the last, After streames of teares were past, Leaning on her Sheepheards hooke, With a sad and heauie looke, (110) thus poore soule she sayd. Harpalus, I thanke not thee, For this sorry tale to mee. Meete me heere againe to morrow, Then I will conclude my sorrow (115) mildly, if may be: With their flocks they home doo fare, Eythers hart too full of care, If they doo meete againe, Then what they furder sayne, (120) you shall heare from me.
FINIS. Shep. Tonie.