Hearken, ye gentle shepherds, to my song!
And place my doleful plaint, your plaints emong.
To you alone, I sing this mournful verse,
The mournful'st verse that ever man heard tell:
To you whose softened hearts it may empierce
With dolour's dart, for death of Astrophel.
To you I sing, and to none other wight,
For well I wot my rhymes been rudely dight.
Yet as they been, if any nicer wit
Shall hap to hear, or covet them to read: