Erit altera merces

HEERE Philomel, in silence sits alone,
In depth of winter, on the bared brier,
Whereas the Rose, had once her beautie showen;
Which Lordes, and Ladies, did so much desire:
But fruitles now, in winters frost, and snow,
It doth despis'd, and vnregarded grow,

So since (old frend), thy yeares haue made thee white,
And thou for others, hast consum'd thy spring,
How few regard thee, whome thou didst delight,
And farre, and neere, came once to heare thee sing:
Ingratefull times, and worthles age of ours,
That let's vs pine, when it hath cropt our flowers.