EDMUND SPENSER
Yet fell she not as one enforst to dye, Ne dyde with dread and grudging discontent, But as one toyld with travaile downe doth lye, So lay she downe, as if to sleepe she went, And closde her eyes with carelesse quictnesse; The whiles soft death away her spirit hent, And soule assoyld from sinfull fleshlinesse.
How happie was I when I saw her leade The Shephcards daughters dauncing in a rownd T How trimly would she trace and softly tread The tender grassc, with rosie garland crownd' And when she list advance her heavenly voyce, Both Nymphes and Muses nigh she made astownd. And flocks and shepheards caused to rejoycc.
But now, ye Shepheard lasses' who shall lead Your wandring troupes, or sing your virelayes ? Or who shall dight your bowres, bith she is dead That was the Lady of your holy-dayes^ Let now jour blissc be turned into bale, And into plaints convert your joyous playes, And with the same fill every hill and dale.
For I will walke this wandring pilgrimage,
Throughout the world from one to other end,
And in affliction wast my better age-
My bread shall be the anguish of my mind,
My drink the tearcs which fro mine eyes do raine,
My bed the ground that hardest I may finde;
So will 1 wilfully increase my paine.
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