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Rh Wherefore, sweet wench, Some louing words, this heat to quench Fine smiles, smirke lookes, And then I neede no other lookes,

Your gleams hath gript the hart, alas within my captiue breast: O how I feele the smart, And how I find my griefe increast: My fancie is so fixt on you, That none away the same can do: My deer vnlesse you it remooue: Without redresse I die for loue, Lament with me, Ye Muses nine, where euer be, My life I loth, My Ioies are gone, I tel you troth.

All Musicks solemne sound, Of song, or else of instrument: Me thinks they do resound, With doleful tunes, me to lament, And in my sleep vnsound, alas, Me thinks such dreadful things to passe: that out I crie in midst of dreames, Wherwith my tears run down as streams, O Lord, think I, She is not here that should be by: What chance is this, That I embrace that froward is?

The Lions noble minde, His raging mood (you know) oft staies, When beasts do yeeld by kinde, On them (forsooth) he neuer praies: Then sithence that I am your thrall, To ease my smart on you I call. A bloudie conquest is your part, To kill so kind a louing heart: