From Daphnada

    Whil'st yet her leafe was greene and fresh her rinde

    And whil'st her braunch faire blossomes foorth did bring

    She fell away against all course of kinde.

    For age to dye is right but youth is wrong；

    She fel away like fruit blowne downe with winde.

    Weepe Shepheard！ weepe to make my undersong.

    Yet fell she not as one enforst to dye

    Ne dyde with dread and grudging discontent

    But as one toyld with travaile downe doth lye

    So lay she downe as if to sleepe she went

    And closde her eyes with carelesse quietnesse；

    The whiles soft death away her spirit hent

    And soule assoyld from sinfull fleshlinesse.

    How happie was I when I saw her leade

    The Shepheards daughters dauncing in a rownd！

    How trimly would she trace and softly tread

    The tender grasse with rosie garland crownd！

    And when she list advance her heavenly voyce

    Both Nymphes and Muses nigh she made astownd

    And flocks and shepheards causèd to rejoyce.

    But now ye Shepheard lasses！ who shall lead

    Your wandring troupes or sing your virelayes？

    Or who shall dight your bowres sith she is dead

    That was the Lady of your holy-dayes？

    Let now your blisse be turnèd into bale

    And into plaints convert your joyous playes

    And with the same fill every hill and dale.

    For I will walke this wandring pilgrimage

    Throughout the world from one to other end

    And in affliction wast my better age：

    My bread shall be the anguish of my mind

    My drink the teares which fro mine eyed do raine

    My bed the ground that hardest I may finde；

    So will I wilfully increase my paine.

    Ne sleepe （the harbenger of wearie wights）

    Shall ever lodge upon mine ey-lids more；

    Ne shall with rest refresh my fainting sprights

    Nor failing force to former strength restore：

    But I will wake and sorrow all the night

    With Philumene my fortune to deplore；

    With Philumene the partner of my plight.

    And ever as I see the starres to fall

    And under ground to goe to give them light

    Which dwell in darknes I to minde will call

    How my fair Starre （that shinde on me so bright）

    Fell sodainly and faded under ground；

    Since whose departure day is turnd to night

    And night without a Venus starre is found.

    And she my love that was my Saint that is

    When she beholds from her celestiall throne

    （In which shee joyeth in eternall blis）

    My bitter penance will my case bemone

    And pitie me that living thus doo die；

    For heavenly spirits have compassion

    On mortall men and rue their miserie.

    So when I have with sorowe satisfide

    Th' importune fates which vengeance on me seeke

    And th' heavens with long languor pacifide

    She for pure pitie of my sufferance meeke

    Will send for me； for which I daylie long：

    And will till then my painful penance eeke.

    Weep Shepheard！ weep to make my undersong！