Waying the cares that cause me thus to crye the combers that dayly straines my hart string the sorrowes that drawe the dropps from myn eye strange may it seeme how my muse this can singe I synge not deare love but lyke to the Swanne that fyndynge her deathe shrykes out her voice so without pleasure syngs the laboringe man so synges the lover that loseth his Choise So synges the Beggar that craves att the dore so syngs the pilgryme that thinks his way long So syngs the slave that pulls att the oare so synges the Captyve, his fettars amonge So synges the sweet Byrde agaynste the sharp thorn So synges my sad muse that musyke doth scorne. |