An excellent Pastoral Ditty

A careful nymph, with careless grief opprest.
Under the shadow of an ashen tree.
With lute in hand did paint out her unrest,
Unto a nymph that bare her company;
No sooner had she tun'd every string.
But sobb'd and sigh'd, and thus began to sing: —
Ladies, and nymphs, come listen to my plaint.
On whom the cheerful sun did never rise;
If pity's strokes your tender breasts may taint,
Come learn of me to wet your wanton eyes.
For Love in vain the name of pleasure bears;
His sweet delights are turn'd into fears.

The trustless shows, the frights, the feeble joys.
The freezing doubts, the guileful promises.
The feigned looks, the shifts, the subtle toys.
The brittle hope, the stedfast heaviness,
The wished war in such uncertain peace;
These with my woe, my woes with these increase.
Thou dreadful god, that in thy mother's lap
Dost lie, and hear the cry of my complaint,
And seest, and smilest at my sore mishap,
That lack but skill my sorrows here to paint;
Thy fire from heaven before the hurt I spied.
Quite through mine eyes into my breast did glide.

My life was light, my blood did spirt and spring.
My body quick, my heart began to leap,
And every thorny thought did prick and sting.
The fruit of my desir'd joys to reap;
But he, on whom to think my soul still tires.
In bale forsook and left me in the briars.
Thus fancy strung my lute to lays of love.
And Love hath rock'd my weary muse asleep;
And sleep is broken by the pains I prove.
And every pain I feel doth force me weep;
Then farewell fancy, love, sleep, pain, and sore,
And farewell weeping, I can wail no more.