Oh, Harpalus! (thus would he say)
Unhappiest under sunne!
The cause of thine unhappy day,
By love was first begunne.
Thou wentest first by sute to seeke
A tigre to make tame,
That settes not by thy love a leeke;
But makes thy griefe her game.

As easy it were to convert
The forest into a flame;
As for to turne a frowarde hert,
Whom thou so faine wouldst frame.
Corin, he liveth carelesse:
He leapes among the leaves:
He eats the frutes of thy redresse:
Thou "reapst" he takes the sheaves.