Good Muse, rocke me aslepe
With some sweete harmony;
This wearie eye is not to kepe
Thy wary company.

Sweet Love, begon a while,
Thou seest my heaviness;
Beautie is borne but to beguyle
My harte of happines.

See how my little flocke,
That lovde to feede on highe,
Doe headlonge tumble downe the rocke,
And in the valley dye.

The bushes and the trees,
That were so freshe and greene,
Doe all their deintie colors leese,
And not a leafe is seene.

The blacke birde and the thrushe,
That made the woodes to ringe,
With all the rest are now at hushe,
And not a note they singe.

Swete Philomele, the birde
That hath the heavenly throte,
Doth nowe, alas! not once afforde
Recordings of a note.

Th flowers have had a frost,
The herbs have loste their savoure,
And Phillida the faire hath lost
'For me her wonted' favour.

Thus all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
That now to hope upon delights,
It is but meere deceite.

And therefore, my sweete Muse,
That knowest what helpe is best,
Doe nowe thy heavenlie conninge use
To sett my harte at rest;

And in a dreame bewraie
What fate shal be my frende;
Whether my life shall still decaye,
Or when my sorrowes ende.