Classic Poem

Good Muse rock me asleepe,
with some sweet Harmonie:
This wearie eye is not to keepe
thy warie companie.

Sweete Loue be gone a while,
thou knowest my heauines:
Beauty is borne but to beguile
my hart of happines.

See how my little flocke
that lou'd to feede on hie:
Doo headlong tumble downe the Rocke
and in the Vallie die.

The bushes and the trees
that were so fresh and greene:
Doo all their dainty colour leese,
and not a leafe is seene.

The Black-bird and the Thrush,
that made the woods to ring:
With all the rest, are now at hush,
and not a noate they sing.

Sweete Philomele the bird,
that hath the heauenly throate:
Dooth now alas not one affoord
recording of a noate.

The flowers haue had a frost,
each hearbe hath lost her sauour:
And Phillida the faire hath lost
the comfort of her fauour

Now all these carefull sights,
so kill me in conceite:
That how to hope vpon delights
it is but meere deceite.

And therefore my sweete Muse
that knowest what helpe is best,
Doo now thy heauenly cunning vse,
to set my hart at rest.

And in a dreame bewray
what fate shall be my friend:
Whether my life shall still decay
or when my sorrow end.