The ninth Sonnet.
[Goe my Flocke, goe get you hence]
[1]
Goe my Flocke, goe get you hence,
Seeke a better place of feeding,
Where you may have some defence
From the stormes in my breast bleeding,
And showers from mine eyes proceeding.
2
Leave a wretch in whom all woe,
Can abide to keepe no measure;
Merrie Flocke, such one forgoe
Unto whom mirth is displeasure,
Onely rich in measures treasure.
3
Yet alas before you goe,
Heare your wofull Masters storie,
Which to stones I else would showe;
Sorrow onely then hath glorie,
When tis excellently sorie.
4
Stella, fairest Shepheardesse,
Fairest, but yet cruelst ever;
Stella, whom the heavens still blesse,
Though against me she persever,
Though I blisse inherit never.
5
Stella hath refused mee,
Stella, who more love hath proved
In this caitiffe hart to bee,
Than can in good to us be moved
Towards Lambkins best beloved,
6
Stella hath refused mee
Astrophel that so well served.
In this pleasant Spring (Muse) see,
While in pride flowers be preserved,
Himselfe onely, winter starved.
7
Why (alas) then doth she sweare
That she loveth me so deerly;
Seeing me so long to beare
Coales of love that burne so cleerly:
And yet leave me hopelesse meerly.
8
Is that love? forsooth I trow,
If I saw my good dogg grieved,
And a helpe for him did know,
My love should not be beleeved,
But he were by me releeved.
9
No, she hates me (welaway)
Faining love, somewhat to please me;
Knowing, if she should display
All her hate, death soone would seaze me,
And of hideous torments ease me.
10
Then my deare Flocke now adieu:
But alas, if in your straying
Heavenly Stella meete with you
Tell her in your piteous blaying,
Her poore Slaves just decaying.
