All my merry Iigges are quite forgot,
All my Ladies love is lost (god wot)
Where her faith was firmely fixt in love,
There a nay is plac't without remove.
  One silly crosse, wrought all my losse,
  O frowning fortune cursed fickle dame,
  For now I see, inconstancy,
  More in women then in men remaine.
In blacke mourne I, all feares scorne I,
Love hath forlorne me living in thrall:
Heart is bleeding, all helpe needing,
O cruell speeding, fraughted with gall.
My shepheards pipe can sound no deale,
My Weathers bell rings dolefull knell,
My curtaile Dogge that wont to have plaid,
Plaies not at all but seemes afraid.
  With sighes so deepe, procures to weepe,
  In howling wise, to see my dolefull plight,
  How sighes resound through heartlesse ground
  Like a thousand vanquisht men in bloudie fight.
Cleare wells spring not, sweet birds sing not,
Greene plants bring not forth their die,
Herds stands weeping, flockes all sleeping,
Nimphes blacke peeping fearefully:
All our pleasure knowne to us poore swaines:
All our merry meetings on the plaines,
All our evening sport from us is fled,
All our love is lost, for love is dead,
  Farewell sweet love thy like nere was,
  For a sweet content the cause of all my woe,
  Poore Coridon must live alone,
  Other helpe for him I see that there is none.

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