Follow your Saint, follow with accents sweet ; Haste you, sad noates, fall at her flying feete : There, wrapt in cloud of sorrowe pitie moue, And tell the rauisher of my soule I perish for her loue. But if she scorns my neuer-ceasing paine, Then burst with sighing in her sight, and nere returne againe.
All that I soong still to her praise did tend, Still she was first ; still she my songs did end. Yet she my loue and Musicke both doeth flie, - The Musicke that her Eccho is and beauties simpathie ; Then let my Noates pursue her scornfull flight : It shall suffice that they were breath'd and dyed for her delight.