l loath they were to loose such christall springs,
Therfore this Spunge-like Mosse each of th[=e] brings.

Here dry (say they) thou loue-forsaken man,
those glassy Conduits, which do neuer cease
On this soft-feeling weede; and if you can,
we all intreate, your griefes you would appease,
Else wilt thou make vs pine in griefe-full woe,
That nere knewe care, or loue, or friend, or foe.

Straight (like a shooting Commet in the ayre)
away depart these sorrow-peirced maydes,
Leauing _Diego_ in a deepe dispaire,
who now, his fortune, now his fate vp-braides.
O heauens (quoth he) how happy are these trees,
That know not loue, nor feele his miseries.

Melts not thy hart (_Gyneura_) at his cares?
are not thy bright transparent eyes yet blinde
VVith monstrous diluge of o'reflowing teares?
remaines there yet disdaines within thy mind?
Disgorge thy hate, O hate him not that loues thee,
Maids are more milde th[=e] men, yet pitty moues me.

Breake, breake in peeces that delicious chest,
whiter then snow on Hyperboreall hyll,
Chase out disdaine, depriue him of his rest,
murder and mangle him that rules thy will.
Be it nere sayd that faire _Gyneuraes_ beauty,
Was ouer-peiz'd by causelesse cruelty.

Cruell to him that merrits curtesie,
loathed of thee that doth deserue all loue,
Basely reiected, scorn'd most churlishly,
that honors thee aboue the Saints aboue.
True loue is pricelesse, rare, and therefore deere,
VVe feast not royall Kings with homely cheere.

Too long it were to tell thee all his merits,
for in delay consists his long-lookt death,
Post-hast of thine must now reuiue his spirits,
or shortly he will gaspe his latest breath;
Speake faire _Gyneura_, speake as I desire,
Or let thy vaine-breath'd speeches back retyre.

Looke, as a man late taken from a trance,
standes gazing heere and there in sencelesse wise,
Not able of himselfe his head t'aduance,
but standeth like a stone in death-like guise,
So lookt _Gyneura_, hanging downe her head,
Shaming that folly her so much had led.

Repentant sorrow would not let her speake,
the burning flames of griefe did dry her teares,
Yet at the last, words out of prison breake,
that long'd to vtter her harts inward cares:
And stealingly there glides with heauy pace
A Riuolet of Pearle along her face.

O cease (quoth she) to wound me any more