ent_ your Mistres here 300
Yet pay your duties,
My Loue was higher borne
Tow'rds the full Fountaines,
Yet she doth _Moorland_ scorne,
And the _Peake_ Mountaines;
Nor would she none should dreame,
Where she abideth,
Humble as is the streame,
Which by her slydeth,
Cho. _On thy Bancke, 310
In a Rancke,
Let thy Swannes sing her,
And with their Musicke,
Along let them bring her._

Yet my poore Rusticke _Muse_,
Nothing can moue her,
Nor the means I can vse,
Though her true Louer:
Many a long Winters night,
Haue I wak'd for her, 320
Yet this my piteous plight,
Nothing can stirre her.
All thy Sands siluer _Trent_
Downe to the _Humber_,
The sighes I haue spent
Neuer can number.
Cho. _On thy Banke
In a Ranke,
Let thy Swans sing her
And with their Musicke 330
Along let them bring her._

Taken with this suddaine Song,
Least for mirth when he doth look
His sad heart more deeply stong,
Then the former care he tooke.
At their laughter and amaz'd,
For a while he sat aghast
But a little hauing gaz'd,
Thus he them bespake at last.
Is this time for mirth (quoth he) 340
To a man with griefe opprest,
Sinfull wretches as you be,
May the sorrowes in my breast,
Light vpon you one by one,
And as now you mocke my woe,
When your mirth is turn'd to moane;
May your like then serue you so.
When one Swaine among the rest
Thus him merrily bespake,
Get thee vp thou arrant beast 350
Fits this season loue to make?
Take thy Sheephooke in thy hand,
Clap thy Curre and set him on,
For our fields 'tis time to stand,
Or they quickly will be gon.
Rougish Swinheards that repine
At our Flocks, like beastly Clownes,
Sweare that they will bring their S