Alongst the borders of a pleasant plaine,
The sad Alexis did his garments teare,
And though alone, yet fearing to be plaine,
Did maime his words with many a sigh and teare:
For whil'st he lean'd him downe vpon a greene,
His wounds againe began for to grow greene.
At last in show as one whose hopes were light,
From fainting breath he forc'd those words to part:
O deare Aurora, dearer then the light,
Of all the worlds delights mine onely part:
How long shall I in barren fields thus eare,
Whil'st to my sad laments thou lend'st no eare!
O what a rage doth boyle in euery vaine,
Which shewes the world my better part's not sound:
And yet thou let'st me spend those plaints in vaine,
T'amaze the world with many a mournful sound:
And whil'st that I to griefe enlarge the raines,
A shoure of sorrow ore my visage raines.
Ah, what haue I whereon my hopes to found,
That hop'd t'haue had repose within thine arme,
Yet haue not any signe of fauour found,
Thy marble mind such frozen fancies arme:
For when in humble sort for grace I pray,
Thou triumph'st ore me, as thy beauties pray.

I that transported once was neare gone wood,
Now with long trauels growing faint and leane,
While as I wander through the desart wood,
My wearied bodie on each tree must leane:
And whil'st my heart is with strange Harpies rent,
I pay to sorrow the accustom'd rent.
And whil'st I wander like the wounded Deere,
That seekes for Dictamne to recure his scarre,
And come to thee whom I hold onely deere,
Thou dost (fierce Faire) at my disaster scarre:
And mak'st me from all kind of comfort barr'd,
Liue in the deserts like a raging Bard.
Ah, be there now no meanes t'vndo the band,
That thou hast fram'd of those thy golden lockes!
Ile range my fancies in a desperate band,
And burst asunder all thy beauties lockes:
Then to thy brest those firie troupes will lead,
There from about thy heart to melt the lead.
But ah, I boast in vaine, this cannot be,
Although my selfe to many shapes I turne:
I onely labour like the restlesse Bee,
That toyles in vaine to serue anothers turne.
My hopes which once wing'd with thy fauours rose,
Are falling now, as doth the blasted rose.
That those my torments cannot long time last,
In my declining eyes the world may reade,
Lo wounded with thy pride I fall at last,
As doth before the winds a beaten reed:
And this my death with shame thy cheekes may die,
Since sacrific'd to thy disdaine I die.