  S Hepherds that wont, on pipes of oaten reed, Ofttimes to plain your love's concealÈd smart; And with your piteous lays have learned to breed Compassion in a country lass's heart: 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: Think he, that such are for such ones most fit, Made not to please the living but the dead: And if in him, found pity ever place; Let him be moved to pity such a case. |
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