Senex. Saye, cushat, callynge from the brake,

               What ayles thee soe to pyne?

             Thy carefulle heart shall cease to ake

                 When dayes be fyne

                 And greene thynges twyne:

               Saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne?

    Turtur. Naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late,

               What ayles thee thus to chyde?

             My love is fled by garden-gate;

                 Since Lammas-tyde

                 I wayte my bryde.

               Saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde?

     Senex. Loe! I am he, the 'Lonelie Manne,'

               Of Time forgotten quite,

             That no remembered face may scanne—

                 Sadde eremyte,

                 I wayte tonyghte

               Pale Death, nor any other wyghte.

             O cushat, cushat, callynge lowe,

               Goe waken Time from sleepe:

             Goe whysper in his ear, that soe

                 His besom sweepe

                 Me to that heape

               Where all my recollections keepe.

             Hath he forgott? Or did I viewe

               A ghostlye companye

             This even, by the dismalle yewe,

                 Of faces three

                 That beckoned mee

               To land where no repynynges bee?

             O Harrye, Harrye, Tom and Dicke,

               Each lost companion!

             Why loyter I among the quicke,

                 When ye are gonne?

                 Shalle I alone

               Delayinge crye 'Anon, Anon'?

             Naye, let the spyder have my gowne,

               To brayde therein her veste.

             My cappe shal serve, now I 'goe downe,'

                 For mouse's neste.

                 Loe! this is best.

               I care not, soe I gayne my reste.