I wrote in Mirrha's bark, and as I wrote, Poor Mirrha wept because I wrote forsaken; 'Twas of thy pride I sung in weeping note, When as her leaves great moan for pity maken. The falling fountains from the mountains falling, Cried out, alas, so fair and be so cruel! And babbling echo never ceased calling, Phillis, disdain is fit for none but truthless. The rising pines wherein I had engraved Thy memory consulting with the wind, Are trucemen to thy heart and thoughts depraved, And say, thy kind should not be so unkind. But, out alas! so fell is Phillis fearless, That she hath made her Damon well nigh tearless. XV My Phillis hath the morning sun At first to look upon her. And Phillis hath morn-waking birds, Her risings for to honour. My Phillis hath prime-feathered flowers, That smile when she treads on them, And Phillis hath a gallant flock, That leaps since she doth own them. But Phillis hath so hard a heart-- Alas that she should have it!-- As yields no mercy to desert, Nor grace to those that crave it. Sweet sun, when thou look'st on, Pray her regard my moan. Sweet birds, when you sing to her, To yield some pity woo her. Sweet flowers, whenas she treads on, Tell her, her beauty deads one. And if in life her love she nill agree me, Pray her before I die, she will come see me. XVI I part; but how? from joy, from hope, from life; I leave; but whom? love's pride, wit's pomp, heart's bliss; I pine; for what? for grief, for thought, for strife; I faint; and why? because I see my miss. Oh ceaseless pains that never may be told, You make me weep as I to water would! Ah weary hopes, in deep oblivious streams Go seek your graves, since you have lost your grounds! Ah pensive heart, seek out her radiant gleams! For why? Thy bliss is shut within those bounds! All traitorous eyes, to[o] feeble in for[e] sight, Grow dim with woe, that now must want your light! I part from bliss to dwell with ceaseless moan, I part from life, since I from beauty part, I part from peace, to pine in care alone, I part from ease to die with dreadful smart. I part--oh death! for why? this world contains More care and woe than with despair remains. Oh loath depart, wherein such sorrows dwell, As all conceits are scant the same to tell! XVII