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III
Feed, silly sheep, although your keeper pineth,
Yet like to Tantalus doth see his food.
Skip you and leap, no bright Apollo shineth,
Whilst I bewail my sorrows in yon wood,
Where woeful Philomela doth record,
And sings with notes of sad and dire lament
The tragedy wrought by her sisters' lord;
I'll bear a part in her black discontent.
That pipe which erst was wont to make you glee
Upon these downs whereon you careless graze,
Shall to her mournful music tunèd be.
Let not my plaints, poor lambkins, you amaze;
There underneath that dark and dusky bower,
Whole showers of tears to Chloris I will pour.
