And give us leave, thee here thus to lament:
Not thee, that dost thy heaven's joy inherit;
But our own selves, that here in dole are drent.
Thus do we weep and wail, and wear our eyes,
Mourning in others, our own miseries."
Which when she ended had, another swain,
Of gentle wit and dainty sweet device;
Whom Astrophel full dear did entertain
Whilst here he lived, and held in passing price: