Alas, what a wretched life is this,
Nay what a death,
Where the tyrant, Love, commandeth.

My flowring days are in their prime declining,
All my proud hope, quite fallen, and life untwining:
My joys each after other in haste are flying
And leave me dying for her that scorns my crying.
O she from hence departs, my Love refraining,
For whom, all heartless, alas, I die complaining.