My Haruest's come, and yet I reapt no corne:
My loue is great, and yet I am forlorne.
Witnes these watrie eyes my sad lament
(Receauing cisternes of my ceaseles teares),
Witnes my bleeding hart my soules intent,
Witnes the weight distressed Daphnis beares:
Sweet Loue, come ease me of thy burthens paine;
Or els I die, or else my hart is slaine.
And thou loue-scorning Boy, cruell, vnkinde;
Oh let me once againe intreat some pittie: