A Shepheard loues no ill, but onely thee; He hath no care, but onely by thy causing: Why doost thou shoot thy cruell shafts at mee? Giue me some respite, some short time of pausing: Still my sweet Loue with bitter lucke th'art sawcing: Oh, if thou hast a minde to shew thy might; Kill mightie Kings, and not a wretched wight. Yet (O Enthraller of infranchizd harts) At my poor hart if thou wilt needs be ayming, Doo me the fauour, show me both thy Darts, That I may chuse the best for my harts mayming, (A free consent is priuiledgd from blaming:) Then pierce his hard hart with thy golden Arrow, That thou my wrong, that he may rue my sorrow. But let mee feele the force of thy lead Pyle, What should I doo with loue when I am old? I know not how to flatter, fawne, or smyle; Then stay thy hand, O cruell Bow-man hold: For if thou strik'st me with thy dart of gold, I sweare to thee (by Ioues immortall curse) I haue more in my hart, than in my purse. The more I weepe, the more he bends his Bow, For in my hart a golden Shaft I finde: (Cruell, vnkinde) and wilt thou leaue me so? Can no remorce nor pittie moue thy minde? Is Mercie in the Heauens so hard to finde? Oh, then it is no meruaile that on earth Of kinde Remorce there is so great a dearth. How happie were a harmles Shepheards life, If he had neuer knowen what Loue did meane; But now fond Loue in euery place is rife, Staining the purest Soule with spots vncleane, Making thicke purses, thin: and fat bodies, leane: Loue is a fiend, a fire, a heauen, a hell; Where pleasure, paine, and sad repentance dwell. There are so manie _Danaes_ nowadayes, That loue for lucre; paine for gaine is sold: No true affection can their fancie please, Except it be a _Ioue_, to raine downe gold Into their laps, which they wyde open hold: If _legem pone_ comes, he is receau'd, When _Vix haud habeo_ is of hope bereau'd. Thus haue I showed in my Countrey vaine The sweet Content that Shepheards still inioy; The mickle pleasure, and the little paine That euer doth awayte the Shepheards Boy: His hart is neuer troubled with annoy. He is a King, for he commands his Sheepe; He knowes no woe, for he doth seldome weepe. He is a Courtier, for he courts his Loue: He is a Scholler, for he sings sweet Ditties: He is a Souldier, for he wounds doth proue; He is the fame of Townes, the shame of Citties; He scornes false Fortune, put true Vertue pitties. He is a Gentleman, because his nature Is kinde and affable to euerie Creature.