Doe headlonge tumble downe the rocke,
And in the valley dye.
The bushes and the trees,
That were so freshe and greene,
Doe all their daintie colors leese,
And not a leafe is seene.
The blacke bird and the thrushe,
That made the woodes to ringe,
With all the rest, are now at hushe,
And not a note they singe.