Classic Poem

To the tune of " Non credo gia che pi u infelice amante"

The nightingale, as soon as Aprill bringeth
Vnto her rested sense a perfect waking,
While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,
Sings out her woes, a thorne her song-booke making,
And mournfully bewaling,
Her throate in tunes expresseth
What grief her breast oppresseth
For Tereus' force on her chaste will preuailing
O Philomela faire, O take some gladnesse,
That here is iuster cause of plaintfull sadnesse:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorne without, my thorne my heart inuadeth

II

Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish
But Tereus' loue, on her by strong hand wrokne,
Wherein she suffring, all her spirits languish,
Full womanlike complaines her will was brokne.
But I, who, dayly crauing,
Cannot haue to content me,
Haue more cause to lament me,
Since wanting is more woe then too much hauing.
O Philomela faire, O take some gladnesse,
That here is iuster cause of plaintfull sadnesse:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorne without, my thorne my heart inuadeth.