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！