My flock feeds not, my ewes breeds not,
My rams speeds not in their bliss:
Love is dying, faith defying,
Her denying, causer of this.
All my merry jigs are clean forgot,
All my lays of love are lost, God wot:
Where my joys were firmly linked by love
There annoys are placed without remove.
One silly cross wrought all my loss;
O frowning Fortune, cursëd fickle dame!
For now I see inconstancy
More in women than in men remain.

In black mourn I, all fear scorn I,
Lo, how forlorn I live in thrall!
Heart is bleeding, all help needing,
O cruel speeding fraught with gall!
My shepherd's pipe will sound no deal;
My wether's bell rings doleful knell;
My curtailed dog, which would have played,
Plays not at all but seems dismayed;
My sighs so deep doth cause him to weep
With howling noise to wail my woeful plight;
My shrieks resounds through Arcadia grounds
Like a thousand vanquished men in deadly fight.

Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not,
Green plants bring not forth; they die;
Herds stand weeping, flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs back creeping fearfully.
All the pleasures known to us poor swains,
All our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sports from greens are fled,
All our loves are lost, for Love is dead.
Farewell, sweet lass, thy like ne'er was
For a sweet content, the cause of all my woe:
Poor Corydon must live alone,
Other help for him there 's none, there 's none I know.