IF she forsake me, I must die: Shall I tell her so? Alas, then straight she will reply, 'No, no, no, no, no!' If I disclose my desperate state, She will but make sport thereat, And more unrelenting grow. What heart can long such pains abide? Fie upon this love! I would venture far and wide, If it would remove. But Love will still my steps pursue, I cannot his ways eschew: Thus still helpless hopes I prove. I do my love in lines commend, But, alas, in vain; The costly gifts, that I do send, She returns again: Thus still is my despair procured, And her malice more assured: Then come, Death, and end my pain! |