"She, while she was, (that was, a woful word to sayn!) For beauty's praise and pleasance had no peer; So well she couth the shepheards entertain With cakes and cracknels, and such country cheer: Ne would she scorn the simple shepheard's swain; For she would call him often heme, And give him curds and clouted cream. O heavy herse! Als Colin Clout she would not once disdain; O careful verse! "But now such happy cheer is turn'd to heavy chance, Such pleasance now displac'd by dolor's dint; All music sleeps, where Death doth lead the dance, And shepheards' wonted solace is extinct. The blue in black, the green in gray, is tinct; The gaudy garlands deck her grave, The faded flowers her corse embrave. O heavy herse! Mourn now, my Muse, now mourn with tears besprint; O careful verse! "O thou great shepheard, Lobbin, how great is thy grief? Where be the nosegays that she dight for thee? The coloured chaplets wrought with a chief,[20] The knotted rush-rings, and gilt rosemary? For she deemed nothing too dear for thee. Ah! they be all yclad in clay; One bitter blast blew all away. O heavy herse! Thereof nought remains but the memory; O careful verse! "Ah me! that dreary death should strike so mortal stroke, That can undo Dame Nature's kindly course; The faded locks fall from the lofty oak, The floods do gasp, for dried is their source, And floods of tears flow in their stead perforce: The mantled meadows mourn, Their sundry colours turn. O heavy herse! The heavens do melt in tears without remorse; O careful verse! "The feeble flocks in field refuse their former food, And hang their heads as they would learn to weep; The beasts in forest wail as they were wood, Except the wolves, that chase the wand'ring sheep, Now she is gone that safely did them keep: The turtle on the bared branch Laments the wound that Death did launch. O heavy herse! And Philomele her song with tears doth steep; O careful verse! "The water nymphs, that wont with her to sing and dance, And for her garland olive branches bear, Now baleful boughs of cypress do advance; The Muses, that were wont green bays to wear, Now bringen bitter elder branches sere; The Fatal Sisters eke repent Her vital thread so soon was spent. O heavy herse! Mourn now, my Muse, now mourn with heavy cheer; O careful verse!