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Muse, rock me asleep With some sweet harmony: The weary eye is not to keep Thy wary company.

Sweet Love, begone awhile, Thou knowest my heaviness: Beauty is born but to beguile My heart of happiness.

See how my little flock, That loved to feed on high. Do headlong tumble down the rock, And in the valley die.

The bushes and the trees That were so fresh and green, Do all their dainty colour leese, And not a leaf is seen.

The blackbird and the thrush. That made the woods to ring. With all the rest, are now at hush. And not a note they sing.

Sweet Philomel, the bird That hath the heavenly throat, Doth now alas! not once afford Recording of a note.