Another of Astrophel

The nightingale, so soon as April bringeth
Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,
While late-bare earth, proud of new clothing springeth,
Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; p
And, mournfully bewailing,
Her throat in tunes expresseth.
What grief her breast oppresseth,
For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
Oh, Philomela fair! oh, take some gladness
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth!

Alas! she hath no other cause of languish
But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken;
Wherein she suffering all her spirits languish,
Full woman-like complains her will was broken.
But I, who daily craving.
Cannot have to content me,
Have more cause to lament me,
Sith wanting is more woe than too much having.
Oh, Philomela fair! oh, take some gladness
That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth!