n with the uprising of the silver swan.

Oh, glorious sunne! quoth I, viewing the sunne,
That lightenst everie thing but me alone:
Why is my summer season almost done,
My spring-time past, and ages autumne gone?
My harvest's come, and yet I reapt no corne:
My love is great, and yet I am forlorne.

Witnes these watrie eyes my sad lament,
Receaving cisternes of my ceaseles teares;
Witnes my bleeding hart my soules intent,
Witnes the weight distressed Daphnis beares:
Sweet love, come ease me of thy burthens paine,
Or els I die, or else my hart is slaine.

And thou, love-scorning boy, cruell, unkinde,
Oh, let me once againe intreat some pittie:
May be thou wilt relent thy marble minde,
And lend thine eares unto my dolefull dittie:
Oh, pittie him, that pittie craves so sweetly,
Or else thou shalt be never named meekly.

If thou wilt love me, thou shalt be my boy,
My sweet delight, the comfort of my minde,
My love, my dove, my sollace, and my joy;
But if I can no grace nor mercie finde,
Ile goe to Caucasus to ease my smart,
And let a vulture gnaw upon my hart.

Yet if thou wilt but show me one kinde looke,
A small reward for my so great affection,
Ile grave thy name in Beauties golden booke,
And shrowd thee under Hellicon's protection:
Making the muses chaunt thy lovely prayse,
For they delight in shepheard's lowly layes.

And when th'art wearie of thy keeping sheepe
Upon a lovely downe, to please thy minde,
Ile give thee fine ruffe-footed doves to keepe,
And pretie pidgeons of another kinde:
A robbin-redbrest shall thy minstrell bee,
Chirping thee sweet and pleasant melodie.

Or if thou wilt goe shoote at little birds,
With bow and boult, the thrustle-cocke and sparrow,
Such as our countrey hedges can afford,
I have a fine bowe, and an yvorie arrow.
And if thou misse, yet meate thou shalt [not] lacke,
Ile hang a bag and bottle at thy backe.

Wilt thou set springes in a frostie night
To catch the long-bill'd woodcocke and the snype,
By the bright glimmering of the starrie light,
The partridge, phaesant, or the greedie grype;
Ile lend thee lyme-twigs, and fine sparrow calls,
Wherewith the fowler silly birds inthralls.

Or in a mystie morning if thou wilt
Make pitfalls for the