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The Sheepheards Antheme.
Neere to a bancke with Roses set about,
Where prettie Turtles ioyning bill to bill:
And gentle springs steale softly murmuring out,
Washing the foote of pleasures sacred hill.
There little Loue sore wounded lyes,
his bow and arrowes broken:
Bedewde with teares from Venus eyes,
Oh that it should be spoken.
Where prettie Turtles ioyning bill to bill:
And gentle springs steale softly murmuring out,
Washing the foote of pleasures sacred hill.
There little Loue sore wounded lyes,
his bow and arrowes broken:
Bedewde with teares from Venus eyes,
Oh that it should be spoken.
Beare him my hart, slaine with her scornfull eye,
Where sticks the arrow that poore hart did kill:
With whose sharpe pyle, yet will him ere he die,
About my hart to write his latest will.
And bid him send it backe to mee,
at instant of his dying:
That cruell, cruell shee may see,
my fayth and her denying.
Where sticks the arrow that poore hart did kill:
With whose sharpe pyle, yet will him ere he die,
About my hart to write his latest will.
And bid him send it backe to mee,
at instant of his dying:
That cruell, cruell shee may see,
my fayth and her denying.
His Hearse shall be a mournfull Cypres shade,
And for a Chauntrie, Philomels sweet lay:
Where prayer shall continually be made,
By Pilgrime louers, passing by that way.
With Nimphs and Sheepheards yeerely mone,
his timelesse death beweeping:
And telling that my hart alone,
hath his last will in keeping.
And for a Chauntrie, Philomels sweet lay:
Where prayer shall continually be made,
By Pilgrime louers, passing by that way.
With Nimphs and Sheepheards yeerely mone,
his timelesse death beweeping:
And telling that my hart alone,
hath his last will in keeping.
FINIS.
Mich. Drayton.
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