T H E
F I R S T   B O O K E
of Songes or Ayres

R O B E R T   I O N E S

1600

17. That hart wherein all sorrowes doth abound.

                      1 
       That hart wherein all sorrowes doth abound,
       Lies in this breast, and cries alowd for death,
       O blame not her when I am vnder ground,
       That scorning wisht t'outliue my panting breath,
                 O doe not her despise,
                 But let my death suffice,
                 To make all young men wise.

                      2 
       My louing hopes prolongd my lothed life,
       Till that my life grew lothsome to my lou'd,
       Then death and I were at no longer strife:
       And I was glad my death her wish approu'd. 
                 O let not her be shent,
                 Yet let my president,
                 Make womans harts relent.