The silly Swaine whose loue breedes discontent,
Thinkes death a trifle, life a loathsome thing,
Sad he lookes, sad he lyes.
But when his Fortunes mallice doth relent,
Then of Loues sweetnes he will sweetly sing,
Thus he liues, thus he dyes.
Then _Tityrus_ whom Loue hath happy made,
Will rest thrice happy in this Mirtle shade.
For though Loue at first did greeue him:
yet did Loue at last releeue him.