Softly, O softly drop, mine eyes, lest you be dry,
and make my heart with grief to melt and die.
Now pour our tears apace,
now stay, O heavy case,
O sour-sweet woe, alas, alas,
O grief, O joy, why strive you so?
Can pains and joys at once in one poor heart consent?
Then sigh and sing, rejoice, lament.
Ay me, ay me, O passions strange and violent!
Was never poor wretch so sore tormented?
Nor joy nor grief can make my heart contented:
for while wjth joy I look on high,
down, down I fall with grief and die.