If in the world there be more woe Than I have in my heart, Whereso it is, it doth come fro, And in my breast there doth it grow, For to increase my smart. Alas! I am receipt of every care, And of my life each sorrow claims his part. Who list to live in quietness By me let him beware, For I by high disdain Am made without redress, And unkindness, alas, hath slain My poor true heart, all comfortless. |