¶To his Flocks. +
B Vrst foorth my teares, assist my forward greefe, And shew what paine imperious loue prouokes Kinde tender Lambs, lament Loues scant releefe, And pine, since pensiue care my freedom yoakes, +(5) Oh pine, to see me pine, my tender Flocks.
Sad pyning care, that neuer may haue peace, At Beauties gate, in hope of pittie knocks: But mercie sleepes, while deepe disdaines encrease, And Beautie hope in her faire bosome yoakes: (10) Oh greeue to heare my greefe, my tender Flocks.
Like to the windes my sighs haue winged beene, Yet are my sighs and sutes repaide with mocks: I pleade, yet she repineth at my teene,O ruthlesse rigour, harder then the Rocks, (15) That both the Sheepheard kills, and his poore Flocks.
¶To his Loue. +
C Ome away, come sweet Loue, The golden morning breakes: All the earth, all the ayre, Of loue and pleasure speakes. (5) Teach thine armes then to embrace, And sweet Rosie lips to kisse: And mixe our soules in mutuall blisse. Eyes were made for beauties grace, Viewing, ruing Loues long paine: (10) Procur’d by beauties rude disdaine.