The Shepherd's Anthem

Near to a bank with roses set about,
Where pretty turtles joining bill to bill,
And gentle springs steal softly murmuring out,
Washing the foot of pleasure's sacred hill,
There little Love sore wounded lies.
His bow and arrows broken,
Bedew'd with tears from Venus' eyes ;
Oh, that it should be spoken !

Bear him my heart, slain with her scornful eye.
Where sticks the arrow that poor hart did kill.
With whose sharp pile, yet will him ere he die.
About my heart to write his latest will.
And bid him send it back to me.
At instant of his dying.
That cruel, cruel she may see,
My faith and her denying.

His hearse shall be a mournful cypress shade.
And for a chantry Philomel's sweet lay ;
Where prayer shall continually be made
By pilgrim lovers passing by that way.
With nymphs' and shepherds' yearly moan,
His timeless death beweeping ;
And telling that my heart alone
Hath his last will in keeping.