Alas! howe soone is happlesse love ondonne,
Wytherr'd and deadde almostt beforre begunn:
Lych Marchh's openyng flowrs thatt sygh'dd forr Maie,
Which Apryll's teares inn angerr wash'dd awaie.
Onr tenes alych, alych our domes shall bee,
Where'err thou wander'stt I wyll followe thee;
And whann our sprytes throughe feere are purg'dd fromm claie,
Inn pees theie shalle repose upponn the mylkie waie.