¶Thirsis the Shepheard, to his Pipe.
LIke Desert woods, with darkesome shades obscured,
Where dreadfull beasts, where hatefull horror raigneth:
Such is my wounded hart, whom sorrow paineth.
The trees are fatall shafts, to death inured,
That cruell loue within my breast maintaineth.
To whet my griefe, when as my sorrow waineth.
The ghastly beasts, my thoughts in cares assures,
Which wage me warre, while hart no succour gaineth:
With false suspect, and feare that still remaineth.
The horrors, burning sighs by cares procured,
Which forth I send, whilest weeping eye complaineth:
To coole the heate, the helpelesse hart containeth.