Go, Passions, to the cruel fair,
Plead my sorrows never ceasing;
Tell her those smiles are empty air,
Growing hopes but not increasing,
Hasting, wasting, with swift pace,
Date of joy in dull disgrace.

Urge her but gently, I request,
With breach of faith and wrack of vows;
Say that my grief and mind's unrest
Lives in the shadow of her brows,
Plying, flying, there to die
In sad woe and misery.

Importune pity at the last,
(Pity in those eyes should hover);
Recount my sighs and torments past
As annals of a constant lover
Spending, ending, many days
Of blasted hopes and slack delays.