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 Ne let Eliſa royall Shepheardeſſe The praiſes of my parted loue enuy, For ſhe hath praiſes in all plenteouſneſſe Powr’d vpon her like ſhowers of Caſtaly By her own Shepheard, Colin her owne Shepherd, That her with heauenly hymnes doth deifie, Of ruſtick muſe full hardly to be betterd.

She is the Roſe, the glorie of the day, And mine the Primroſe in the lowly ſhade, Mine, ah not mine; amiſſe I mine did ſay: Not mine but his, which mine awhile her made: Mine to be his, with him to liue foray: O that ſo faire a flower ſo ſoone ſhould fade, And through vntimely tempeſt fall away.

She fell away in her firſt ages ſpring, Whil’ſt yet her leafe was greene, & freſh her rinde, And whil’st her braunch faire bloſſomes foorth did bring, She fell away againſt all courſe of kinde: For age to dye is right, but youth is wrong; She fel away like fruit blowne downe with winde: Weepe Shepheard weepe to make my vnderſong.

What hart ſo ſtony hard, but that would weepe, And poure foorth fountaines of inceſſant teares? What Timon, but would let compaſsion creepe Into his breſt, and pierce his froſen eares? In ſtead of teares, whoſe brackiſh bitter well I wasſted haue, my heart blood dropping weares, To thinke to ground how that faire bloſſome fell.

Yet fell ſhe not, as on enforſt to dye, Ne dyde with dread and grudging diſcontent Rh