All in the shadow of a bushy brere,
That Colin hight, which well could pipe and sing,
For he of Tityrus his song did lere:
There, as he sat in secret shade alone,
Thus gan he make of love his piteous moan.
"O sovereign Pan! thou god of shepheards all,
Which of our tender lambkins takest keep,
And, when our flocks into mischance might fall,
Dost save from mischief the unwary sheep,
Als of their masters hast no less regard