WHen heapes of heavie hap, had fild my harte right full,
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And sorrow set forth pensivenes, my joyes away to pull:6
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I raunged then the woods, I romde the fields aboute,
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A thousand sighes I set at large, to seeke their passage out.
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And walkyng in a dompe, or rather in dispaire,
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I cast my weeping eye aside, I saw a fielde full faire:
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And lokyng upwarde than, I spied a Mount therein,
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Which Flora had even for her life, dect as you have not seen.
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Then could I not but thinke the same some sacred place,
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Where God or Goddes such did dwell, as might releve my case:
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I sat me downe, for whie? Death could but stop my breath,
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And to a man so sorrowfull, what sweter is then death?
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No sooner was I set, but slepe approcht mine eye,
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Wherein the Nymphes of Helicon appeared by and by.
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And straight those sisters nine, the ground of Musicks arte,
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My thought did strive who might prevaile, to ease my heavie harte.
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The cunning they shewed there, the subtile notes they soung,
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As with a wrest clene from my hart (my thought) the cares they wrong:
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Celestiall were the notes, which then (amazde) I hearde,
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Their ditties eke were wonderfull, note ye whome they preferde.
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As for thy bloud (quod they) right noble we confesse,
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Thy pettigree (to long for us) the Heralds can expresse.
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But happie happie Duke, the second chylde of Fame,
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Which (next unto the highest) she doth so recoumpt the same.
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And happie Thomas ones, twise happie Norffolke toe,
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Thrise happie men that leade your lives, where Howard hath to doe:
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Which Howards happie daies, they praied God to encrease,
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Three times the space of Natures course, like Nestor live in peace.
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What age hath seen his like, so free of purse and toung?
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Where lives a juster Justice now, though rare in one so young?
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What plaint can there be tolde, to his most godlie eare?
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But that he kepes the other styll, the blamed soule to heare?
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In mekenes he more meke, then is the mekest Dove,
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Yet is his secret wisedome such, he knoweth whome to love:
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In freendship, he surmounts Gisippus and his Tite,
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All Nobles may well note his race, and thereby take their light.
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In peace a Salomon, in warre so stoute a Prince,
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As raigned not tyll Hector came, nor lived never since:
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Then Scevola, more firme, which for his cuntries turne,
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His hand from arme before his foes, in fierie slame did burne.
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He in the pride of peace, delights in marciall showe,
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Doe marke his turnoys upon horse, note well his use of bowe.
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Nay marke him yet that shall, note well his paynefulnes,
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No sugred slepe can make him freend to sluggish Idlenes.
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What that becomes a Prince, in his good grace doth want?
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In peace, a courtier for the Courte, a second Mars in camp.
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Thus styll they soung, whose notes were cause of my releefe,
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And I bewrapped in a Traunce, had cleane forgot my greefe:
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And triple were my joyes, ones, cause my paynes were past,
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And twise agayne, because that Prince amongst us here is plast.
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I clapt my handes for joye (alas) I wakt withall,
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And then my muses and their songes, my joyes were gone and all.
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And then retournd my greefe, I felt a further care,
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Because to shew what I had seen, did passe my power so farre:
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And that a man unlearnd, of arte that hath no skyll,
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Should have a charge so great as this, and could doe it so yll.
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Yet thus I gan to wright, I knew right well that he,
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Which due desert did thus commend, should shade the want in me:
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To whome I pray the Lorde, to send like yeares a Noye
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In happie health and quiet state, to his and all our joye.
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