Foolishe Marsias nere made the like I suppose,
Yet must we sing them, as good stuffe I vndertake,
As for such a pen man is well fittyng to make.
Ah for these long nights, heyhow, when will it be day?
I feare ere I come she will be wowed away.
Then when aunswere is made that it may not bee,
O death why commest thou not? by and by (sayth he)
But then, from his heart to put away sorowe,
He is as farre in with some newe loue next morowe.
But in the meane season we trudge and we trot,