Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisp'rings stirr'd,
As loath to waken any singing bird."
II. FROM THE "LAMENT OF THE LITTLE SHEPHERD."
"See! yonder hill where he was wont to sit,
A cloud doth keep the golden sun from it,
And for his seat, (as teaching us) hath made
A mourning covering with a scowling shade.
The dew in every flower, this morn, hath lain,
Longer than it was wont, this side the plain,
Belike they mean, since my best friend must die,