Lay down your lutes and let your gitterns rest. Phillips is dead whose like you can not finde. (5) Of musicke much exceeding all the rest, Muses therefore of force now must you wrest, Your pleasant notes into an other sound, The string is broke, the lute is dispossest. The hand is cold, the body in the ground. (10) The lowring lute lamenteth now therfore. Phillips her frende that can her touche no more.
That all thing somtime finde
ease of their paine, saue
onely the louer. +
I See there is no sort, Of thinges that liue in griefe: Which at somtime may not resort, Wheras they haue reliefe. (5) The striken Dere by kinde, Of death that standes in awe: For his recure an herbe can finde, The arrow to withdrawe. The chased Dere hath soile, (10) To coole him in his heat: The Asse after his wery toile, In stable is vp set. The Cony hath his caue, The litle bird his nest: (15) From heate and cold them selues to saue, At all times as they list. The Owle with feble sight. Lyes lurking in the leaues: The Sparrow in the frosty night, (20) May shroude her in the caues. But wo to me alas, In sunne nor yet in shade, I cannot finde a resting place, My burden to vnlade. (25) But day by day still beares, The burden on my backe: