Go, my flock, go get you hence

Go, my flock, go get you hence,

seek some other place of feeding,

where you may have some defence

from the storms in my breast breeding,

and showers from mine eyes proceeding.

Leave a wretch in whom all woe

can abide to keep no measure.

Merry flock, such one forego,

unto whom Mirth is displeasure,

only rich in Mischief's treasure.

Stella hath refused me,

Stella who more love hath proved

in this caitiff heart to be

than can in good ewes be moved

towards lambkins best beloved.

Why, alas, them doth she swaar

that she loveth me so dearly,

seeing me so long to bear

coals of love that burn so clearly,

and yet leave me hopeless merely?

No, she hates me (well-away),

feigning love somewhat to please me,

knowing if she should display

all her hate, Death soon would seize me,

and of hideous torments ease me.

Then my dear flock, now adieu!

But, alas, if in your straying

heav'nly Stella meet with you,

tell her in your piteous blaying

her poor slave's unjust decaying.