Now each creature joys the other,
  Passing happy days and hours;
One bird reports unto another
  [In]1 the fall of silver showers;
Whilst the earth, our common mother,
  Hath her bosom decked with flowers.

Whilst the greatest torch of heaven
  With bright rays warms Flora's lap,
Now making nights and days both even,
  Cheering the plants with fresher sap,
My field of flowers, quite bereaven,
  Wants refresh of better hap.

Echo, daughter of the air,
  Babbling guest of rocks and hills,
Doth know the name of my fierce fair,
  And sounds the accents of my ills.
Each thing pities my despair,
  Whilst that she her lover kills.

Whilst that she, O cruel maid,
  Doth me and my love despise,
My life's flourish is decayed,
  The which depended on her eyes.
But her will must be obeyed,
  And well he ends for love who dies.