Harke this pretty bubling spring, How it makes the Meadowes ring, Loue now stand my friend, Heere let all sorrow end, (10) And I will honour thee. See where little Cupid lyes, Looking babies in her eyes. Cupid helpe me now, Lend to me thy bowe, (15) to wound her that wounded me. Heere is none to see or tell, All our flocks are feeding by, This banke with Roses spred, Oh it is a dainty bed, (20) fit for my Loue and me.
Harke the birds in yonder Groaue, How they chaunt vnto my Loue, Loue be kind to me, As I haue beene to thee, (25) for thou hast wonne my hart. Calme windes blow you faire, Rock her thou sweete gentle ayre, O the morne is noone, The euening comes too soone, (30) to part my Loue and me. The Roses and thy lips doo meete, oh that life were halfe so sweete, Who would respect his breath, That might die such a death, (35) oh that life thus might die. All the bushes that be neere, With sweet Nightingales beset, Hush sweete and be still, Let them sing their fill, (40) there’s none our ioyes to let.