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greefe aggrauateth the hart that suffers it) felt Dianas paine no lesse, then both the Shepherds. But aboue all the rest, a certaine Shepherd, who bicause he woulde not be seene, stoode closely behinde a great Oke, yet as neere vnto her as he could, to heare her the better, & to see her face. The three Shepherds that were not far off, perceiued him, though he saw them not againe: And it was woorthy of admirati∣on, to see how astonished he stoode at Dianas beautie, augmented (if it might be) with the burning anger and anguish of her greeuous thoughts, and enameled with the cristalline teares, which he sawe trickle downe from her cleere eies vpon her Rosie cheekes; so that the Shepherd did neither stirre hand nor foote, nor did once put togither (a common and naturall thing in all men) his moouing eie-lids. But Diana vnable to take some little rest and ease in any place, rising vp from the harde groūd, she went into those bushy thickets, next vnto hir, which was as great a griefe vnto the vnknowne Shepherd, as if his tender hart had been rent out of his panting brest. For seeing Diana gone, and that she would not harken to his request (for he praied her to stay a little longer) he made haste to followe her: But thinking with himselfe, that it contented her better to be alone, he went not after her, bicause he woulde not in any thing offende her, but sitting downe againe, and taking out his Rebecke, he began to sing this song following.
FAire Shepher desse Diana,
Where dost thou now thy figure hide,
More bright then cleere Diana,
When to her full course she is hide.
Venus, the Goddesse faire,
Of beauties all the souer aine,
Wonders at this affaire,
That now her beauties doe not raine.
A sunnie beame thou art,
And who beholdes thy heauenly dies,
Thou wound’st with natures art,
And wounded, in his passions dies.
Thou art a Dimond well,
From whence sweete liquor floweth fast,
Ambrosium thou art well,
From which mine eies shall neuer fast.
Each thing in thee thou hast
To make thee perfect in each part,
If now thou would’st but haste
To pitie, not my soule to part.
This wager will I beare,
And lay, Thou wantest not an ounce,
More cruell then a Beare
To be, or Tygre, or an Ounce.
Cruell thou art in praying,
For thee I burne, as flames in Kill,
Those that to thee are praying
For mercie, thou dost scorne and kill.
My soule thine absence teares,
And giues vnto the same againe
Torments, my torments teares,
(Teares that doe make so small a gaine.)
More bitter then the gall,
Thy absence is, or Sallow wan,
With sorrow it doth gall
My hart, and makes me pale and wan.
In beautie not a peere
Thou hast, for it exceedes the rest,
But where it doth appeere,
Thy crueltie there giues no rest.
O what a foole am I
To wish to see her in this plaine,
That from her mouth an (I)
Will not afford, but (No) so plaine.
No paine I doe deserue
For words, hauing worse deeds essaid
For whom Loue thus doth serue,
It is not much this to haue said.
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