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My joy is dead, and cannot be reviv'd, Fled is my joy and never may return; Both of my joy and of myself depriv'd, Far from all joy I sing, and singing mourn. O let no tender heart or gentle ear Partake my passions or my plainings hear. Rude, flinty breasts, that never felt remorse; Hard craggy rocks, that death and ruin love; These, only these my passions shall enforce, Beyond their kind, and to compassion move. My grief shall wonders work, for he did so That caus'd my sorrows, and these tears doth owe. |