Fuller of wish, than hope, methinks it is, For me to expect a fuller work than this, Fuller of matter, fuller of rich sense, Fuller of Art[,] fuller of Eloquence; Yet dare I not be bold, to intitle this The fullest work; the Author fuller is, Who, though he empty not himself, can fill Another fuller, yet continue still Fuller himself, and so the Reader be Alwayes in hope a fuller work to see. _On a Sheepherd that died for Love._ 1. _Cloris_, now thou art fled away, _Aminta’s_ Sheep are gone astray, And all the joyes he took to see His pretty Lambs run after thee. _Shee’s gone, shee’s gone, and he alway,_ _Sings nothing now but welladay._ 2. His Oaten pipe that in thy praise, Was wont to play such roundelayes, Is thrown away, and not a Swaine Dares pipe or sing within this Plaine. _’Tis death for any now to say_ _One word to him, but welladay._ 3. The May-pole where thy little feet So roundly did in measure meet, Is broken down, and no content Came near _Amintas_ since you went. _All that ere I heard him say,_ _Was ~Cloris~, ~Cloris~, welladay._ 4. Upon those banks you us’d to tread, He ever since hath laid his head, And whisper’d there such pining wo, That not one blade of grasse will grow. _Oh ~Cloris~, ~Cloris~, come away,_ _And hear ~Aminta’s~ welladay._ 5. The embroyder’d scrip he us’d to weare Neglected hangs, so does his haire. His Crook is broke, Dog pining lyes, And he himself nought doth but cryes, _Oh ~Cloris~, ~Cloris~, come away,_ _And hear_, &c. 6. His gray coat, and his slops of green, When worn by him, were comely seen, His tar-box too is thrown away, There’s no delight neer him must stay, _But cries, oh ~Cloris~ come away,_ _~Aminta’s~ dying, welladay_. _The Shepheards lamentation for the losse of his Love._ 1. Down lay the Shepheards Swain, So sober and demure, Wishing for his wench again, So bonny and so pure. With his head on hillock low, And his armes on kembow; And all for the losse of her Hy nonny nonny no. 2. His teares fell as thin, As water from a Still, His haire upon his chin, Grew like tyme upon a hill: His cherry cheeks were pale as snow, Testifying his mickle woe; And all was for the loss of her hy nonny nonny no. 3. Sweet she was, as fond of love, As ever fettred Swaine; Never such a bonny one Shall I enjoy again. Set ten thousand on a row, Ile forbid that any show Ever the like of her, hy nonny nonny no. 4. Fac’d she was of Filbard hew, And bosom’d like a Swanne: Back’t she was of bended yew, And wasted by a span. Haire she had as black as Crow, From the head unto the toe, Down down, all over, hy nonny nonny no. 5.