The Shepherd's Sorrow for his Phoebe's Disdain

O woods! unto your walks my body hies,
To loose the traitorous bonds of tiring Love,
Where trees, where herbs, where flowers,
Their native moisture pours
From forth their tender stalks to help mine eyes:
Yet their united tears may nothing move.

When I behold the fair adorned tree.
Which lightning's force and Winter's frost resists,
Then Daphne's ill betide
And Phoebus' lawless pride
Enforce me say, " Even such my sorrows be,
For self-disdain in Phoebe's heart consists. "

If I behold the flowers by morning-tears,
Look lovely-sweet, ah! then forlorn I cry,
" Sweet showers for Memnon shed.
All flowers by you are fed.
Whereas my piteous plaint that still appears.
Yields vigour to her scorns, and makes me die.

When I regard the pretty gleeful bird.
With tearful (yet delightful) notes complain,
I yield a terror with my tears.
And whilst her music wounds mine ears,
" Alas! " say I, "when will my notes afford
Such like remorse, who still beweep my pain? "

When I behold upon the leafless bough
The hapless bird lament her love's depart,
I draw her biding nigh.
And sitting down I sigh.
And sighing say, " Alas! that birds avow
A settled faith, yet Phoebe scorns my smart."

Thus weary in my walk, and woful too,
I spend the day, forespent with daily grief;
Each object of distress
My sorrow doth express:
I dote on that which doth my heart undo.
And honour her that scorns to yield relief.