II.
The Despairing Lover.
My wounds have bled too long, deare, say noe more,
Noe cordialls can a dying man restore;
Thinke not your words, or this alluring smile,
Can longer my dispairing soule beguile,
Which drowned already in a sea of teares,
Cares not for tides of hopes, or ebbs of feares.
Noe cordialls can a dying man restore;
Thinke not your words, or this alluring smile,
Can longer my dispairing soule beguile,
Which drowned already in a sea of teares,
Cares not for tides of hopes, or ebbs of feares.
But who shall sing your praise when I am gon?
Or who can love so well as I have done?
When death shall sease my love, and breake these bands,
And you shall fall into imperious hands,
Then think on me, and what my hart conceives;
When they shall gather fruit, youll plucke but leaves.
Or who can love so well as I have done?
When death shall sease my love, and breake these bands,
And you shall fall into imperious hands,
Then think on me, and what my hart conceives;
When they shall gather fruit, youll plucke but leaves.