Adown thy cheek, to quench thy thirsty pain.
HOB. Nor this, nor that, so much doth make me mourn,
But for the lad, whom long I lov'd so dear,
Now loves a lass that all his love doth scorn:
He, plunged in pain, his tressed locks doth tear;
Shepheard's delights he doth them all forswear;
His pleasant pipe, which made us merriment,
He wilfully hath broke, and doth forbear
His wonted songs wherein he all outwent.
THE. What is he for a lad you so lament?