SECOND BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 9 by THOMAS CAMPION

GOOD men, show, if you can tell,
Where doth Human Pity dwell?
Far and near her I would seek,
So vexed with sorrow is my breast.
'She', they say, 'to all, is meek;
And only makes th' unhappy blest.'

Oh! if such a saint there be,
Some hope yet remains for me:
Prayer or sacrifice may gain
From her implored grace relief;
To release me of my pain,
Or at the least to ease my grief.

Young am I, and far from guile,
The more is my woe the while:
Falsehood with a smooth disguise
My simple meaning hath abused:
Casting mists before mine eyes,
By which my senses are confused.

Fair he is, who vowed to me
That he only mine would be;
But, alas, his mind is caught
With every gaudy bait he sees:
And too late my flame is taught
That too much kindness makes men freeze.

From me all my friends are gone,
While I pine for him alone;
And not one will rue my case,
But rather my distress deride:
That I think there is no place
Where Pity ever yet did bide.

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