Mourning my heart doth sore oppress That force constraineth me to complain; For whereas I should have redress, Alas, I cannot be loved again. I serve, I sue, all of one sort. My trust, my travail is all in vain As, in despair without comfort, Alas, I cannot be loved again. Perdie, it is but now of late. Not long ago ye knew my pain. Will your rigour never abate? Alas, when shall I be loved again? It is both death and deadly smart. No sharper sorrow can none sustain Than for to love with faithful heart, Alas, and cannot be loved again. |