O fading Branches of decaying Bayes
Who now will water your dry-wither'd Armes?
Or where is he that sung the louely Layes
Of simple Shepheards in their Countrey-Farmes?
Ah he is dead, the cause of all our harmes:
And with him dide my ioy and sweete delight;
And cleare to Clowdes, the Day is turnd to Night.
SYDNEY. The Syren of this latter Age;
SYDNEY. The Blasing-starre of England's glory;
SYDNEY. The Wonder of wise and sage;