The wanton troopers riding by 
Have shot my fawn, and it will die. 
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive 
To kill thee. Thou ne’er didst alive 
Them any harm: alas, nor could 
Thy death yet do them any good. 
I’m sure I never wish’d them ill; 
Nor do I for all this, nor will:
But, if my simple prayers may yet 
Prevail with Heaven to forget 
Thy murder, I will join my tears 
Rather than fail. But, O my fears! 
It cannot die so. Heaven’s King 
Keeps register of everything: 
And nothing may we use in vain. 
Ev’n beasts must be with justice slain; 
Else men are made their deodands. 
Though they should wash their guilty hands 
In this warm life-blood, which doth part 
From thine, and wound me to the heart, 
Yet could they not be clean: their stain 
Is dyed in such a purple grain. 
There is not such another in 
The world to offer for their sin. 
       Unconstant Sylvio, when yet 
I had not found him counterfeit, 
One morning (I remember well) 
Tied in this silver chain and bell, 
Gave it to me: nay, and I know 
What he said then; I’m sure I do. 
Said he, ‘Look how your huntsman here 
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear.’ 
But Sylvio soon had me beguiled. 
This waxèd tame, while he grew wild, 
And quite regardless of my smart, 
Left me his fawn, but took his heart. 
       Thenceforth I set myself to play 
My solitary time away, 
With this, and very well content, 
Could so mine idle life have spent.
For it was full of sport; and light 
Of foot, and heart; and did invite 
Me to its game: it seemed to bless 
Itself in me. How could I less 
Than love it? O, I cannot be 
Unkind, t’ a beast that loveth me. 
       Had it lived long, I do not know 
Whether it too might have done so 
As Sylvio did: his gifts might be 
Perhaps as false or more than he. 
But I am sure, for aught that I 
Could in so short a time espy, 
Thy love was far more better then 
The love of false and cruel men. 
       With sweetest milk, and sugar, first 
I it at mine own fingers nursed. 
And as it grew, so every day 
It waxed more white and sweet than they. 
It had so sweet a breath! And oft 
I blushed to see its foot more soft, 
And white (shall I say than my hand? 
Nay, any lady’s of the land). 
       It is a wondrous thing, how fleet 
’Twas on those little silver feet. 
With what a pretty skipping grace, 
It oft would challenge me the race: 
And when ’t had left me far away, 
’Twould stay, and run again, and stay.
For it was nimbler much than hinds; 
And trod, as on the four winds. 
       I have a garden of my own, 
But so with roses overgrown, 
And lilies, that you would it guess 
To be a little wilderness. 
And all the spring time of the year 
It only lovèd to be there. 
Among the beds of lilies, I 
Have sought it oft, where it should lie; 
Yet could not, till itself would rise, 
Find it, although before mine eyes; 
For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade, 
It like a bank of lilies laid. 
Upon the roses it would feed 
Until its lips ev’n seemed to bleed: 
And then to me ’twould boldly trip, 
And print those roses on my lip. 
But all its chief delight was still 
On roses thus itself to fill: 
And its pure virgin limbs to fold 
In whitest sheets of lilies cold. 
Had it lived long, it would have been 
Lilies without, roses within. 
       O help! O help! I see it faint: 
And die as calmly as a saint. 
See how it weeps. The tears do come 
Sad, slowly dropping like a gum. 
So weeps the wounded balsam: so 
The holy frankincense doth flow. 
The brotherless Heliades 
Melt in such amber tears as these. 
       I in a golden vial will 
Keep these two crystal tears; and fill 
It till it do o’erflow with mine; 
Then place it in Diana’s shrine. 
       Now my sweet fawn is vanished to 
Whither the swans and turtles go: 
In fair Elysium to endure,
With milk-white lambs, and ermines pure. 
O do not run too fast: for I 
Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. 
       First my unhappy statue shall 
Be cut in marble; and withal, 
Let it be weeping too: but there 
Th’ engraver sure his art may spare;
For I so truly thee bemoan, 
That I shall weep though I be stone: 
Until my tears, still dropping, wear 
My breast, themselves engraving there. 
There at my feet shalt thou be laid, 
Of purest alabaster made: 
For I would have thine image be 
White as I can, though not as thee.