Woods, rocks and mountains and ye desert places
Where nought but bitter cold and hunger dwells,
Hear a poor maid's last will, killed with disgraces.
Slide softly whilst I sing, you silver fountains.
And let your hollow waters like sad bells
Ring to my woes, whilst miserable I, 
Cursing my fortunes, drop a tear and die.

Griefs, woes, and groanings, hopes and all such lies
I give to broken hearts that daily weep; 
To all poor maids in love, my lost desiring. 
Sleep sweetly while I sing my bitter moaning,
And last, my hollow lovers that ne'er keep
Truth in their hearts; while miserable I1, 
Cursing my fortunes, drop a tear and die.