Ah, poor Love, why dost thou live, Thus to see thy service lost; If she will no comfort give, Make an end, yield up the ghost!

That she may, at length, approve That she hardly long believed, That the heart will die for love That is not in time relieved.

Oh, that ever I was born Service so to be refused; Faithful love to be forborn! Never love was so abused.

But, sweet Love, be still awhile; She that hurt thee, Love, may heal thee; Sweet! I see within her smile More than reason can reveal thee.

For, though she be rich and fair, Yet she is both wise and kind, And, therefore, do thou not despair But thy faith may fancy find.

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