Go, my flock, go get you hence, 
seek some other place of feeding, 
where you may have some defence 
from the storms in my breast breeding,
and showers from mine eyes proceeding. 

Leave a wretch in whom all woe
can abide to keep no measure.
Merry flock, such one forego,
unto whom Mirth is displeasure,
only rich in Mischief's treasure.

Stella hath refused me, 
Stella who more love hath proved
in this caitiff heart to be 
than can in good ewes be moved
towards lambkins best beloved. 

Why, alas, them doth she swaar
that she loveth me so dearly,
seeing me so long to bear 
coals of love that burn so clearly,
and yet leave me hopeless merely? 

No, she hates me (well-away), 
feigning love somewhat to please me,
knowing if she should display 
all her hate, Death soon would seize me,
and of hideous torments ease me. 

Then my dear flock, now adieu!
But, alas, if in your straying
heav'nly Stella meet with you, 
tell her in your piteous blaying 
her poor slave's unjust decaying.