Ah, foolish Hobbinol! thy gifts be vain;
Colin them gives to Rosalind again.
"I love thilk lass, (alas! why do I love?)
And am forlorn, (alas! why am I lorn?)
She deigns not my good will, but doth reprove,
And of my rural music holdeth scorn.
Shepheard's device she hateth as the snake,
And laughs the songs that Colin Clout doth make.
"Wherefore, my pipe, albe rude Pan thou please,
Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would;