A SHEPHERD in a shade his plaining made, Of love and lover's wrong, Unto the fairest lass that trod on grass, And thus began his song: Restore, restore my heart again, Which love by thy sweet looks hath slain, Lest that, enforced by your disdain, I sing; Fie! fie! on love, it is a foolish thing. Since love and fortune will, I honour still Your fair and lovely eye; What conquest will it be, sweet nymph for thee, If I for sorrow die? Restore, restore my heart again, Which love by thy sweet looks hath slain, Lest that, enforced by your disdain, I sing; Fie! fie! on love, it is a foolish thing. My heart where have you laid, O cruel maid, To kill when you might save? Why have ye cast it forth as nothing worth, Without a tomb or grave? O, let it be entombed and lie, In your sweet mind and memory, Lest I resound on every warbling string: Fie! fie! on love that is a foolish thing. |