A shepherd in a shade,
His plaining made,
Of love and lovers' wrong,
Unto the fairest lass
That trod on grass,
And thus began his song.

Since Love and Fortune will,
I honour still
Your fair and lovely eye.
What conquest will it be,
Sweet nymph, for thee
If I for sorrow die?

Restore, restore my heart again,
Which love by thy sweet looks hath slain,
Lest that, enforc'd by your disdain, I sing:
"Fie, fie on love, it is a foolish thing."

My heart where have you laid?
O cruel maid,
To kill, when you might save!
Why have ye cast it forth,
As nothing worth,
Without a tomb or grave?

O let it be entomb'd and lie
In your sweet mind and memory,
Lest I resound on every warbling string:
"Fie, fie on love, that is a foolish thing!"