But oft

But oft, when underneath the green-wood shade

Her flocks lay hid from Phoebus' scorching rays,

Unto her knight she songs and sonnets made,

And them engrav'd in bark of beech and bays;

She told how Cupid did her first invade,

How conquer'd her, and ends with Tancred's praise:

And when her passion's writ she over read,

Again she mourn'd, again salt tears she shed.-

You happy trees, for ever keep (quoth she)

This woeful story in your tender rind;

Another day under your shade, may be,

Will come to rest again some lover kind,

Who if these trophies of my griefs he see,

Shall feel dear pity pierce his gentle mind.

With that she sigh'd, and said - Too late I prove

There is no truth in fortune, trust in love:

Yet may it be (if gracious heav'ns attend

The earnest suit of a distressed wight)

At my entreat they will vouchsafe to send

To these huge deserts that unthankful knight;

That when to earth the man his eyes shall bend,

And see my grave, my tomb, and ashes light,

My woeful death his stubborn heart may move,

With tears and sorrows to reward my love.