EDMUND SPENSER

How happie was I when I saw her leade The Shepheards daughters dauncing in a rownd! How trimly would she trace and softly tread The tender grasse, 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 rejoyce.

But now, ye Shepheard lasses ! who shall lead Your wandring troupes, or sing your virelayes ? Or who shall dight your bowres, sith she is dead That was the Lady of your holy-dayes ? Let now your blisse 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 teares which fro mine eyes do raine,

My bed the ground that hardest I may fmde ;

So will I wilfully increase my paine.

Ne sleepe (the harbenger of wearie wights) Shall ever lodge upon mine ey-lids more ; Ne shall with rest refresh my fainting sprights, Nor failing force to former strength restore : But I will wake and sorrow all the night With Philumene, my fortune to deplore ; With Philumene, the partner of my plight.

And ever as I see the starres to fall,

And under ground to goe to give them light

�� �