My sheepe are thoughts, which I both guide and serue;
Their pasture is faire hilles of fruitlesse loue,
On barren sweets they feed, and feeding sterue.
I waile their lott, but will not other proue;
My sheepehooke is wanne hope, which all vpholds;
My weedes Desire, cut out in endlesse folds;
What wooll my sheepe shall beare, whiles thus they liue,
In you it is, you must the iudgement giue.