Burst forth, my tears, assist my forward griefe,
And shew what pain imperious loue prouokes.
Kinde tender lambes, lament loues scant reliefe,
And pine, since pensiue care my freedome yokes.
O pine, to see me pine, my tender flockes.
Sad pining care, that neuer may haue peace,
At beauties gate in hope of pitie knocks :
But mercy sleepes while deep disdaine increase,
And beautie hope in her faire bosome yokes.
O grieue to heare my griefe, my tender flockes.
Like to the winds my sighs haue winged beene,
Yet are my sighes and sutes repaid with mocks :
I pleade, yet she repineth at my teene.
O ruthlesse rigour harder then the rocks,
That both the shepheard kils, and his poor flocks.
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