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:
“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 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.’
         Restore, restore my heart again
         Which love by thy sweet looks hath slain,
         Lest that, enforced by your disdain,
         I sing ‘Fie on love! it is a foolish thing.’”