Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest, Not daring trust the office of mine eyes. While Philomela sings, I sit and mark, And wish her lays were tuned like the lark. Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye could see, Her fancy fell a-turning. Love, whose month was ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air. For now I see inconstancy More in women than in men remain.
Heart is bleeding, all help needing, O cruel speeding, fraughted with gall.
In howling wise, to see my doleful plight. All our pleasure known to us poor swains, All our merry meetings on the plains, All our evening sport from us is fled, All our love is lost, for Love is dead. I see that there is none. But plainly say thou lov'st her well, And set thy person forth to sell. The tricks and toys that in them lurk, The cock that treads them shall not know.