Tityrus to his Faire Phillis

The silly Swaine whose loue breedes discontent,
Thinkes death a trifle, life a loathsome thing,
Sad he lookes, sad he lyes.

But when his Fortunes mallice doth relent,
Then of Loues sweetnes he will sweetly sing,
Thus he liues, thus he dyes.

Then Tityrus whom Loue hath happy made,
Will rest thrice happy in this Mirtle shade.
For though Loue at first did greeue him:
yet did Loue at last releeue him.