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WOODS, hills and riuers, now are desolate, | |
| Sith he is gone the which them all did grace: | |
| And all the fields do waile their widow state, | |
| Sith death their fairest flowre did late deface. | |
| The fairest flowre in field that euer grew, | 5 |
| Was Astrophel; that was, we all may rew. | |
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| What cruell hand of cursed foe vnknowne, | |
| Hath cropt the stalke which bore so faire a flowre? | |
| Vntimely cropt, before it well were growne, | |
| And cleane defaced in vntimely howre. | 10 |
| Great losse to all that euer him did see, | |
| Great losse to all, but greatest losse to mee. | |
| |
| Breake now your gyrlonds, O ye shepheards lasses, | |
| Sith the faire flowre, which them adornd, is gon: | |
| The flowre, which them adornd, is gone to ashes, | 15 |
| Neuer againe let lasse put gyrlond on. | |
| In stead of gyrlond, weare sad Cypres nowe, | |
| And bitter Elder, broken from the bowe. | |
| |
| Ne euer sing the loue-layes which he made, | |
| Who euer made such layes of loue as hee? | 20 |
| Ne euer read the riddles, which he sayd | |
| Vnto your selues, to make you mery glee. | |
| Your mery glee is now laid all abed, | |
| Your mery maker now alasse is dead. | |
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| Death the deuourer of all worlds delight, | 25 |
| Hath robbed you and reft fro me my ioy: | |
| Both you and me, and all the world he quight | |
| Hath robd of ioyance, and left sad annoy. | |
| Ioy of the world, and shepheards pride was hee, | |
| Shepheards hope neuer like againe to see. | 30 |
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| Oh death that hast vs of such riches reft, | |
| Tell vs at least, what hast thou with it done? | |
| What is become of him whose flowre here left | |
| Is but the shadow of his likenesse gone. | |
| Scarse like the shadow of that which he was, | 35 |
| Nought like, but that he like a shade did pas. | |
| |
| But that immortall spirit, which was deckt | |
| With all the dowries of celestiall grace: | |
| By soueraine choyce from th’ heuenly quires select, | |
| And lineally deriv’d from Angels race, | 40 |
| O what is now of it become, aread. | |
| Ay me, can so diuine a thing be dead? | |
| |
| Ah no: it is not dead, ne can it die, | |
| But liues for aie, in blisfull Paradise: | |
| Where like a new-borne babe it soft doth lie. | 45 |
| In bed of lillies wrapt in tender wise. | |
| And compast all about with roses sweet, | |
| And daintie violets from head to feet…. | |
| |
| But liue thou there still happie, happie spirit, | |
| And giue vs leaue thee here thus to lament: | 50 |
| Not thee that doest thy heauens ioy inherit, | |
| But our owne selues that here in dole are drent. | |
| Thus do we weep and waile, and wear our eies, | |
| Mourning in others, our owne miseries. | |
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