Burst forth, my tears, assist my forward griefe, And shew what pain imperious loue prouokes. Kinde tender lambes, lament loues scant reliefe, And pine, since pensiue care my freedome yokes. O pine, to see me pine, my tender flockes. Sad pining care, that neuer may haue peace, At beauties gate in hope of pitie knocks : But mercy sleepes while deep disdaine increase, And beautie hope in her faire bosome yokes. O grieue to heare my griefe, my tender flockes. Like to the winds my sighs haue winged beene, Yet are my sighes and sutes repaid with mocks : I pleade, yet she repineth at my teene. O ruthlesse rigour harder then the rocks, That both the shepheard kils, and his poor flocks.