Why do we make music?

Who made thee Hob forsake the Plough, and fall in love?

Sweet beauty which hath power to bow the gods above,

What, dost thou serve a shepherdess?

Ay, such as hath no peer I guess.

What is her name who bears thy heart within her breast?

Sylvana fair of high desert whom I love best,

Oh Hob, I fear she looks too high,

Yet love I must or else I die.

In fields abroad, where Trumpets shrill do sound,
where glaives & shields, do give & take the knocks,
where bodies dead, do overspread the ground:
and friends to foes, are common butchers blocks,
A gallant shot well managing his peece
in my conceit deserves a golden fleece.

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