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.