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Now had the glorious Sunne tane vp his Inne,
And all the lamps of heau'n inlightned bin,
Within the gloomy shades of some thicke Spring,
Sad Philomel gan on the Haw-thorne sing,
(Whilst euery beast at rest was lowly laid)
The outrage done vpon a silly Maid.
All things were husht, each bird slept on his bough;
And night gaue rest to him, day tyr'd at plough;
Each beast, each bird, and each day-toyling wight,
Receiu'd the comfort of the silent night:
Free from the gripes of sorrow euery one,
Except poore Philomel and Doridon;

86

She on a Thorne sings sweet though sighing straines;
He on a couch more soft, more sad complaines:
Whose in-pent thoughts him long time hauing pained,
He sighing wept, & weeping thus complained.