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 The flowers have had a frost, Each herb hath lost her savour; And Phyllida the fair hath lost The comfort of her favour.

Now all these careful sights So kill me in conceit, That how to hope upon delights It is but mere deceit.

And therefore, my sweet Muse, Thou know'st what help is best; Do now thy heavenly cunning use To set my heart at rest;

And in a dream bewray What fate shall be my friend; Whether my life shall still decay, Or when my sorrow end.

Muses, can ye sing Of the beauty of the Spring? Have ye seen on earth that sun That a heavenly course hath run? Have ye lived to see those eyes Where the pride of beauty lies? Have ye heard that heavenly voice That may make Love's heart rejoice? Have ye seen Aglaia, she Whom the world may joy to see? If ye have not seen all these, Then ye do but labour leese; While ye tune your pipes to play But an idle roundelay; And in sad Discomfort's den Everyone go bite her pen; That she cannot reach the skill