ave me so?
Can no remorce nor pittie move thy minde?
Is mercie in the heavens so hard to finde?
Oh, then it is no mervaile that on earth
Of kinde remorce there is so great a dearth.

How happie were a harmles shepheards life,
If he had never knowen what love did meane;
But now fond Love in every place is rife,
Staining the purest soule with spots uncleane,
Making thicke purses thin, fat bodies leane.
Love is a fiend, a fire, a heaven, a hell,
Where pleasure, paine, and sad repentance dwell!

There are so manie Danaes now a dayes,
That love for lucre, paine for gaine is sold;
No true affection can their fancie please,
Except it be a Jove, to raine downe gold
Into their laps, which they wyde open hold:
If _legem pone_ comes, he is receav'd,
When _Vix haud habeo_ is of hope bereav'd.

Thus have I showed, in my countrey vaine,
The sweet content that shepheards still injoy;
The mickle pleasure and the little paine
That ever doth awayte the shepheards boy:
His hart is never troubled with annoy;
He is a king, for he commands his sheepe;
He knowes no woe, for he doth seldome weepe.

He is a courtier, for he courts his love;
He is a scholler, for he sings sweet ditties;
He is a souldier, for he wounds doth prove;
He is the fame of townes, the shame of citties:
He scornes false fortune, but true vertue pitties.
He is a gentleman, because his nature
Is kinde and affable to everie creature.

Who would not then a simple shepheard bee,
Rather than be a mightie monarch made?
Since he injoyes such perfect libertie
As never can decay, nor never fade:
He seldome sits in dolefull cypresse shade,
But lives in hope, in joy, in peace, in blisse,
Joying all joy with this content of his.

But now good fortune lands my little boate
Upon the shoare of his desired rest:
Now must I leave awhile my rurall noate,
To thinke on him whom my soule loveth best;
He that can make the most unhappie blest;
In whose sweete lap Ile lay me downe to sleepe,
And never wake till marble stones shall weepe.

FINIS.

SONNET.

Loe here behold these tributarie teares
Paid to thy faire but cruell tyrant eyes;
Loe here the blossome of my youthfull yeares,
Nipt