Long have I made these hills and valleys weary
With noise of these my cries that fill the air.
She only who should make me merry
Hears not my prayer,
That I alas, misfortune's son and heir,
Hope in none other hope but in despair
If thus my death may please thee,
Then die I will to ease thee.
Yet if I die the world will thee control
And write upon my tomb, "O sweet departure
Lo here lies one (Alas poor soul)
A true Love's Martyr."