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A shepherd in a shade, his plaining made,
of love and lovers wrong,
Unto the fairest lass, That trod on grass,
And thus began his song.
Since love and fortune will, I honour still,
your fair and lovely eye,
What conquest will it be, Sweet Nymph for thee,
If I for sorrow die.
Restore, restore my heart againe,
Which love by thy sweet looks hath slain,
Least that inforced by your disdain, I sing,
Fie fie on love, it is a foolish thing.

My heart where have you laid O cruel maid,
To kill when you might save,
Why have ye cast it forth as nothing worth,
Without a tomb or grave.
O let it be intombed and lie,
In your sweet mind and memory,
Least I resound on every warbling string,
Fie fie on love that is a foolish thing.
Restore, restore my heart againe,
Which love by thy sweet looks hath slain,
Least that inforced by your disdain, I sing,
Fie fie on love, it is a foolish thing.

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