“My little flock, whom earst I lov’d so well,
And wont to feed with finest grasse that grew, 345
Feede ye hencefoorth on bitter astrofell*,
And stinking smallage, and unsaverie rew;
And when your mawes are with those weeds corrupted,
Be ye the pray of wolves; ne will I rew
That with your carkasses wild beasts be glutted. 350
[* _Astrofell_, (probably) starwort. See _Astrophel_, v. 184-196.]
“Ne worse to you, my sillie sheepe, I pray,
Ne sorer vengeance wish on you to fall
Than to my selfe, for whose confusde decay**
To carelesse heavens I doo daylie call;
But heavens refuse to heare a wretches cry; 355
And cruell Death doth scorn to come at call,
Or graunt his boone that most desires to dye.
[* _Decay_, destruction.]
“The good and righteous he away doth take,
To plague th’unrighteous which alive remaine;
But the ungodly ones he doth forsake, 360
By living long to multiplie their paine;
Else surely death should be no punishment,
As the Great Iudge at first did it ordaine,
But rather riddance from long languishment.
“Therefore, my Daphne they have tane away; 365
For worthie of a better place was she:
But me unworthie willed here to stay,
That with her lacke I might tormented be.
Sith then they so have ordred, I will pay
Penance to her, according* their decree, 370
And to her ghost doe service day by day.
[* _According_, according to.]
“For I will walke this wandring pilgrimage,
Throughout the world from one to other end,
And in affliction waste my better age:
My bread shall be the anguish of my mynd, 375
My drink the teares which fro mine eyes do raine,
My bed the ground that hardest I may fynd;
So will I wilfully increase my paine.
“And she, my love that was, my saint that is,
When she beholds from her celestiall throne 380
(In which shee ioyeth in eternall blis)
My bitter penance, will my case bemone,
And pittie me that living thus doo die;
For heavenly spirits have compassion
On mortall men, and rue their miserie. 385
“So when I have with sorrow satisfyde
Th’importune Fates which vengeance on me seeks,
And th’heavens with long languor pacifyde,
She, for pure pitie of my sufferance meeke,
Will send for me; for which I daily long, 390
And will till then my painfull penance eeke,
Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.