I play to please myself, all be it ill.
Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame,
Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest:
With shepheard sits not follow flying Fame,
But feed his flock in fields where falls them best.
I wot my rhymes be rough, and rudely drest;
The fitter they my careful case to frame:
Enough is me to paint out my unrest,
And pour my piteous plaints out in the same.
The god of shepheards, Tityrus,[10] is dead,