The complaint of a Friend of his hauing lost his Doue

WHat shold I shed my teares to show mine inward pain
Since yt the Iewell I haue lost may not be had again.
Yet bootelesse though it bee to vtter couert smart
It is a meane to cure the griefe, and make a ioyfull hart.
Wherefore I say to you that haue enioyde your Loue,
Lament with me in wofull wise for loosing of my Doue.
You Turtle Cocks that are your louing Honnes bereft,
And do bewaile your cruell chaunce that you aliue are left:
Come hither, come I say, come hie in haste to mee,
Let eyther make his dolefull plaint amid this drearie tree.
A fitter place than this may no where else be found
For friendly Eccho here wil cause ech cry to yeeld a sound.
In youth it was my luck on such a Doue to light,
As by good nature wan my loue, she was my whole delite
A fresher fowle than mine for shape and beauties hue,
Was neuer any man on earth that had the hap to vewe.
Dame Nature hir had framde so perfite in hir kinde
As not the spiteful man himself one fault in hir could finde.
Hir eie so passing pure, hir beake so braue and fit,
The stature of hir lims so small, hir head so full of wit,
Hir neck of so good fyse, hir plume of colour white,
Hir legs & feete so finely made, though seldom sene in sight:
Eche part so fitly pight as none mought chaūge his place.
Nor any Bird could lightly haue so good & braue a grace.
But most of all that I did fansie, was hir voyce,
For swete it was vnto mine care, & made the hart reioyce.
No sooner could I come in place where she was set,
But vp she rose, and ioyfull would hir Make & louer met.
About my tender neck she would haue clasped tho,
And laid hir beake betwixt my lips, sweete kisses to besto.
And ought besides that mought haue pleasurde me at all,
was neuer man that had a birde so fit to play withall.
when I for ioy did sing, she would haue song with mee,
whē I was wo, my grief was hirs, she wold not plesāt be
But (oh) amid my ioyes came cruell canckred Death.
And spiting at my pleasures rest my louing bird hir breath
who finding me alack, and absent on a day,
Caught bow in hand, & strak hir down, a breding as she lay
Since I haue cause to waile the death of such a Doue.
(Good Turtles) help me to lament ye losse of my true loue.
The Tree whereon she sat shall be the place where I
will sing my last, & end my life: for (Turtles) I must die.
you know it is our kinde, we can not liue alone,
More pleasant is ye death to vs then life when loue is gone
To tell a farther tale my famting breath denies,
And selfe same death ye slue my Doue, begins to close mine eies.