Good men, shew, if you can tell,
Where doth humane pittie dwell ?
Farre and neere her would I seeke,
So vext with sorrow is my brest.
She, ( they say ) to all, is meeke,
And onely makes th' vnhappie blest.

Oh !  if such a Saint there be,
Some hope yet remaines for me :
Prayer or sacrifice may gaine
From her implored grace reliefe ;
To release mee of my paine,
Or at the least to ease my griefe.

Young am I, and farre from guile,
The more is my woe the while :
Falshood with a smooth disguise
My simple meaning hath abus'd :
Casting mists before mine eyes,
By which my senses are confus'd.

Fair he is, who vow'd to me
That he onely mine would be ;
But, alas, his minde is caught
With eu'ry gaudie bait he sees :
And too late my flame is taught
That too much kindnesse makes men freese.

From me all my friends are gone,
While I pine for him alone ;
And not one will rue my case,
But rather my distresse deride :
That I thinke there is no place
Where pittie euer yet did bide.