My Phillis has the morning Sun,

at first to look upon her:

And Phillis has morne-waking birds,

her rising still to honour.

My Phillis has prime-feathered flowers

that smile when she treads on them:

And Phillis has a gallant flock,

that leaps since she does own them.

But Phillis has too hard a heart,

alas, that she should have it:

It yields no mercy to desert,

nor grace to those that crave it.

Sweete Sun, when thou look’st on,

pray her regard my moan!

Sweete birds, when you sing to her,

to yield some pity, woo her!

Sweet flowers that 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.