Philomela

The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth

Unto her rested sense a perfect waking,

While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth,

Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making;

O Philomela fair, O take some gladness

That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!

Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish

But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken;

Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,

Full womanlike complains her will was broken

O Philomela fair, O take some gladness

That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!