Good Muse, rocke me aslepe
With some swete harmony:
This wearie eyes is not to kepe
Thy wary company.
Sweete Love, begone a while,
Thou seest my heavinesse;
Beautie is borne but to beguyle
My harte of happinesse.
See how my little flocke,
That lovde to feede on highe,
Doe headlonge tumble downe the rocke,
And in the valley dye.
The bushes and the trees,
That were so freshe and greene,
Doe all their daintie colors leese,
And not a leafe is seene.
The blacke bird and the thrushe,
That made the woodes to ringe,
With all the rest, are now at hushe,
And not a note they singe.
Swete Philomele, the birde
That hath the heavenly throte,
Doth nowe, alas! not once afforde
Recordinge of a note.
The flowers have had a frost,
The herbes have lost their savoure;
And Phillada the faire hath lost
For me her wonted favour.
Thus all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
That now to hope upon delights
It is but mere deceite.
And therefore my sweete muse,
That knoweth what helpe is best,
Doe nowe thy heavenlie cunning use
To sett my harte at rest.
And in a dream bewraie
What fate shall be my friende;
Whether my life shall still decaye,
Or when my sorrowes ende.
NICHOLAS BRETON, _about 1570_.