Come Shepearde weedes become youre Masters mynde,
Yeelde owteward shewe, what Inwarde chaunge hee tryes:
Nor bee abashed, synce suche a guest yow fynde,
Whose strongest hope in youre weyke comforte lyes.
Come Shepeard weedes attend my woofull Cryes,
Disuse youre selves from sweete Menalcas voyce:
For others bee those Tunes w ch sorrowes tyes,
From those clere notes w ch freely may rejoyce.
Then powre oute pleynte, and in one worde say this:
Helples his pleynte, who spoyles him self of blis.