Follow your saint follow with accents sweet,
Haste you sad noates fall at her flying feete,
There wrapt in cloud of sorrow pitie move,
And tell the ravisher of my soule, I perish for her love.
But if she scorns my never ceasing paine,
Then burst with sighing in her sight, and nere returne againe.

All that I soong still to her praise did tend,
Still she was first, still she my sings did end,
Yet she my love, and Musicke both does flie,
The Musicke that her Eccho is, and bauties simpathies;
Then let my Noates pursue her scornfull flight,
It shall suffice, that thex were breath'd and dyed for her delight.