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There's not a grove that wond'reth not my woe,
Nor not a river weeps not at my tale,
I hear the echoes (wand'ring to and fro)

Refound my grief through every hill and dale; The birds and beasts yet in their fimple kind 71 Lament for me, no pity elfe that find.

None else there is gives comfort to my grief,
Nor my mishaps amended with my moan,
When heaven and earth have shut up all relief, 75
Nor care avails what cureless now is grown:
And tears I find do bring no other good,
But as new showers increase the rifing flood.

When on an old tree, under which ere now
He many a merry roundelay had fung,
Upon a leaflefs canker-eaten bough,


His well tun'd bag-pipe carelessly he hung : And by the fame his fheep-hook, once of price, That had been carv'd with many a rare device.

He call'd his dog, (that fome time had the praise) Whitefoot, well known to all that keep the 86



many a wolf had worried in his days, A better cur there never followed fwain; Which, though as he his master's forrows knew, Wag'd his cut tail, his wretched plight to rue. 90

Poor cur, quoth he, and him therewith did stroke Go to your cote, and there thyfelf repose, Thou with thine age, my heart with forrow broke.

Be gone, ere death my restless eyes do close ; The time is come thou must thy mafter leave, 95 Whom the vile world fhall never more deceive.

With folded arms thus hanging down his head,
He gave a groan, his heart in sunder cleft,
And, as a stone, already feemed dead

Before his breath was fully him bereft : The faithful fwain here laftly made an end, Whom all good shepherds ever shall defend.

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WHEN fortie winters shall befeige thy brow,

And digge deep trenches in thy beauties field, Thy youthes proud liuery, fo gaz'd on now,


Will be a totter'd weed of smal worth held : Then, being afkt, where all thy beautie lies, Where all the treasure of thy lufty daies; To say within thine owne deepe-funken eyes, 'Were' an all-eating shame, and thriftlesse praise. How much more praise deseru'd thy beauties vfe,

If thou couldst answere, this faire child of mine Shall fum my count, and make my old excufe! Proouing his beautie by fucceffion thine. This were to be new made when thou art ould, And fee thy blood warme when thou feel'st it could.

Born 1564; dyed 1616.

V. 8. where.

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You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly fatisfie our eyes,
More by your number, than your light,
You common people of the skies,
What are you when the Sun fhall rife?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth dame Natures lays,
Thinking your voices understood,

By your weak accents, what's your praise
When Philomel her voice shall raise?


You violets, that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the fpring were all your own,
What are you when the Rofe is blown ?

* Born 1568; dyed 1639.


So, when my

Miftrifs fhall be feen

In form and beauty of her mind,
By vertue firft, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me, if she were not defign'd
Th' eclipfe and glory of her kind?




He first deceas'd; she for a little tri'd
To live without him: lik'd it not, and di'd.

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