¶In blacke morne I, all feares
scorne I,
¶Loue hath forlorne me, liuing in thrall:
260Hart is bleeding, all helpe needing,
¶O cruell
speeding, fraughted with gall.
¶My
shepheards pipe can
sound no deale,
¶My weathers bell rings dolefull knell,
¶My curtaile dogge that wont to haue plaid,
265Plaies not at all but
seemes afraid.
¶_With
sighes
so deepe, procures to weepe,
¶_In howling wi
se, to
see my dolefull plight,
¶_How
sighes re
sound through hartles ground
¶_Like a thou
sand vanqui
sht men in blodie fight.