¶Come Philomele that
sing'
st of raui
shment,
¶Make thy
sad groue in my di
sheueld heare,
1130As the danke earth weepes at thy langui
shment:
¶So I at each
sad
straine, will
straine a teare,
¶And with deepe grones the Diapa
son beare:
¶_For burthen-wi
se ile hum on
TARQVIN still,
¶_VVhile thou on
TEREVS de
scants better skill.
1135And whiles again
st a thorne thou bear'
st thy part,
¶To keepe thy
sharpe woes waking, wretched I
¶To imitate thee well, again
st my heart
¶VVill fixe a
sharpe knife to affright mine eye,
¶VVho if it winke
shall thereon fall and die.
1140_The
se meanes as frets vpon an in
strument,
¶_Shal tune our heart-
strings to true langui
shment.
¶And for poore bird thou
sing'
st not in the day,
¶As
shaming anie eye
should thee behold:
¶Some darke deepe de
sert
seated from the way,
1145That knowes not parching heat, nor freezing cold
¶VVill wee find out: and there we will vnfold
¶_To creatures
stern,
sad tunes to change their kinds,
¶_Since mē proue bea
sts, let bea
sts bear gētle minds.