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Since that to deathe ys gon̄ the Shepeheara hye,
Who moste the silly Shepeheards pype did pryze,
Youre Dolefull Tunes sweete Muses now applye,
And yow (O Trees) yf any lyfe there lyes
In Trees, nowe throughe youre proved parckes receyve
The straunge Resounde of these my Cawsefull Cryes.
And lett my Breath uppon youre Braunches cleave,
(My Breath distinguisht into wordes of woe)
That so I may signes of my sorowes Leave,
But yf among your selves some one Tree growe
That aptest ys to figure misery,
Lett yt (embraced) beare youre greeves to showe.

The weeping Mirhe I thincke will not denye,
Her help to this, this justest Cause of playnte,
Youre Dolefull Tunes sweete Muses now apply,
And thow pore Earthe whome fortune dothe attaynt,
In natures name to suffer suche a harme,
As for to loose thy gemm, or earthly Sainte,
Uppon thy face, let Cooly Ravens swarme,
Lett all the sea thy teares accoumpted bee,
Thy Bowells with all killing Mettals arme.

Let golde now Rust lett Dyamondes waste in thee,
Let Perles bee wann̄ with woe theyre Dam̄ dothe beare,
Thy self henceforthe the Light do never see,
And yow (O Flowers) wch sometymes Princes were,
(Till these Straunge Alteringes yow did happ to trye,)
Of Princes Losse youre selves Foretokens reare,
Lilly in Morning black, thy whitenes dye,
O Hyacinth lett ai bee on thee still,
Youre Dolefull tunes sweete muses now apply
O Echo all these woodes with Roaring fill.

And do not onely marcke the accentes Last,
But all, for all, reache not my wailefull will,
One Echo, to an other Echo cast,
Sounde of my greeves: and lett yt never ende,
Till that yt hathe all woodes and waters past,
Nay, to the Heavens youre just Complayninges send,
And stay the Starres unconstant Constant race,
Till that they do unto oure Doloures bend,

And aske the Reason of that speciall grace,
That they wch have no Lyves shoulde live so longe,
And vertuous sowles shoulde so soone leave theyre place,
Aske yf in great Men, good men so do thronge,
That hee (for want of Ellbowe roome must Dye,
Or yf that they bee scant) yf this bee wronge,
Did wisdome this oure wretched tyme espy?

In one true Chest, to Robbe all vertuous treasure,
Youre Dolefull Tunes sweete Muses now apply,
And yf that any counseile yow to measure,
Youre Dolefull Tunes, to them still playing say,
To well felt greef, playnt ys the onely pleasure,
O Lighte of Sunne, whiche ys entitled Day,
O well thow doest, that thow no longer buydest,
For mourning Night, her black weedes may display,
O Phebus with good Cause thy face thow hydest,
Rather then have thy all beholding eye,
Fowlde with this sighte while thow the Charyott guydest
And well meethinckes becomes this vaulty skye,
A stately Tombe to cover hym deceassed,
Youre Dolefull Tunes sweete Muses now apply.
O Philomela with thy Brest oppressed,
By shame and greef, help, help, mee to Lament
Suche Cursed harmes as can not bee redressed,
Or yf thy mourning Notes bee fully spent,
Then give a quyett eare unto my playning,
For I to teache the worlde Complaynt am bent,
Yee Dimmy Clowdes whiche well employ youre stayning,
This Cherefull Ayer with youre obscured cheare,
Witnes youre wofull teares with dayly rayning,
And yf o Sunne, thow ever didst apeare,
In shape wch by mans eye mighte bee perceyved,
Vertue ys Deade, now sett thy Tryumphe here,
Now sett thy Tryumphe in this Worlde bereaved,
Of what was good, wheare now no good dothe lye,
And by the Pompe “or” Losse will bee conceyved,
All notes of myne, youre selves together tye,
With too muche greef mee thinckes yow are dissolved,
Youre Dollefull tunes sweete Muses now apply,
Tyme ever oulde and younge ys still revollved,
Within yt self and never taketh ende,
But Mankynde ys for ay to noughte resolved,
The filthy snake her aged Cote can mend,
And getting yowthe, in yowth ageane can florish.
But unto Man Age ever deathe dothe sende,
The very Trees with grafting wee can Cherish,
So that wee can longe tyme produce theyre tyme,
But Man wch helpeth them must helples perish,
Thus thus the Myndes wch over all do clyme,
When they by yeares experience gett best graces,
Must finish then by Deathes detested Cryme,
Wee last short while, and buylde long lasting places,
Ah lett us all ageanst fowle Nature Crye,
Wee Natures worckes do help, shee us defaces,
For howe can Nature unto this apply?
That shee her Chylde I say her best Childe killeth,
Youre Dolefull Tunes, sweete Muses now apply,
Alas mee thinckes my weykened voyce but spilleth,
The vehement Course of this just Lamentation,
Mee thinckes my sounde no place wth sorrow filleth.
I knowe not I, but once in Detestation,
I have my self and all what lyfe conteyneth,
Synce Deathe on vertues forte hathe made invasyon,
One worde of woe, an other after trayneth,
Ne doo I Care howe Rude bee my Invention,
So yt bee seene what sorowe in mee rayneth
O Elementes by whose (they say) Contention,
Owre Bodyes bee in living power meyntayned
Was this Mans Deathe the fruite of youre Dissention,
O Phisickes powre whiche (some say) hathe restrayned
Approche of Deathe; alas thow helpest meigerly,
Whenn once one ys for Atropos distrayned,
Greate bee Phisicions bragges, but ayde ys beggerly,
When Rooted moysture fayles or groweth dry,
They leave of all and say Deathe comes too aegerly,
They are but wordes therefore wch men do bwye,
Of any synce Esculapius ceassed,
Youre Dolefull tunes, sweete Muses now apply,
Justice, Justice, ys now (alas) oppressed,
Bountyfullnes hathe made his last Conclusyon,
Goodnes for best attyre in Dust ys dressed,
Shepeheardes bewayle youre uttermoste Confusion,
And see by this Picture to yow presented,
Deathe ys oure Home, Lyfe ys but a Delusion.
For, see, (alas) who ys from yow absented,
Absented, Nay, I say, for ever banisshed,
From suche as were to dye for hym, contented,
Oute of oure sight in turne of hand ys vanished
Shepeheard of Shepeheardes whose well settled order,
Private with wealthe, Publique with quyet garnisshed,
While hee did Live, farr, farr was all Disorder,
Example more prevayling then Direction.
Farr was Home stryfe, and farr was fooe from border,
His Lyfe a Lawe, his Looke a full Correction,
As in his healthe wee healthfull were preserved,
So in his sicknes grewe oure sure infection.
His Deathe our Deathe, but ah my Muse hathe swerved,
Frome suche deepe playnte, as shoulde oure woes discrye,
Whiche hee of us for ever hathe deserved,
The style of heavy harte can never Flye,
So hye as shoulde make suche a fame notoryous,
Cease Muse therefore, thy Dart O Deathe apply?
And Farewell Prince whome goodnes hathe made gloryous.