Neglected hangs, so does his haire.
His Crook is broke, Dog pining lyes,
And he himself nought doth but cryes,
Oh Cloris, Cloris, come away,
And hear, &c.
6.
His gray coat, and his slops of green,
When worn by him, were comely seen,
His tar-box too is thrown away,
There’s no delight neer him must stay,