THE nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus’ force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. II. Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish, But Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike, complains her will was broken, But I, who daily craving, Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. SONG. _To the tune of_ “_Basciami vita mia_.” SLEEP, baby mine, Desire’s nurse, Beauty, singeth; Thy cries, O baby, set mine head on aching: The babe cries, “’Way, thy love doth keep me waking.” Lully, lully, my babe, Hope cradle bringeth Unto my children alway good rest taking: The babe cries, “Way, thy love doth keep me waking.” Since, baby mine, from me thy watching springeth, Sleep then a little, pap Content is making; The babe cries, “Nay, for that abide I waking.” I. THE scourge of life, and death’s extreme disgrace; The smoke of hell, the monster calléd Pain: Long shamed to be accursed in every place, By them who of his rude resort complain; Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught, His ugly evil in others’ good to hide; Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wrought As treasure-house where her best gifts do bide; And so by privilege of sacred seat, A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns, He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great, Within her beams wrapping his cruel stains. Ah, saucy Pain, let not thy terror last, More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast. II.