A Turtle sate vpon a leauelesse tree,
Mourning her absent pheare,
With sad and sorrie cheare.
About her wondring stood,
The Cittizens of vvood.
And whilst her plumes she rents,
And for her Loue laments:
The stately trees complaine them,
The birds with sorrow paine them.
Each one that dooth her view,
Her paines and sorrowes rue.
But were the sorrowes knowne,
That me hath ouer-throwne:
Oh how would Phæbe sigh, if she did looke on mee?

The loue-sicke Polipheme that could not see,
Who on the barren shoare,
His fortunes did deplore:
And melteth all in mone,
For Galatea gone,
And with his cries
Afflicts both earth and skies,
And to his woe betooke,
Dooth breake both pipe and hooke.
For whom complaines the morne,
For whom the Sea-Nimphs mourne.
Alas his paine is nought,
For were my woe but thought:
Oh how would Phæbe sigh, if she did looke on me?

Beyond compare my paine,
yet glad am I:
If gentle Phæbe daine,
to see her Montan die.