My Phillis hath the morninge Sunne,
 at first to looke upon her:
And Phillis hath morne-waking birds,
 her risinge still to honour.
My Phillis hath prime-featherd flowres,
 that smile when she treads on them:
And Phillis hath a gallant flocke,
 that leapes since she dooth owne them.
But Phillis hath too hard a hart,
 alas, that she should have it:
It yeelds no mercie to desert,
 nor grace to those that crave it.
Sweete Sunne, when thou look'st on,
 pray her regard my moane!
Sweete birds, when you sing to her,
 to yeeld some pitty, 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. 


Finis.