Poetry Archives

Away, delights! go seek some other dwelling,
        For I must die.
Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever telling
        Lie after lie.
For ever let me rest now from thy smarts;
        Alas, for pity go
        And fire their hearts
That have been hard to thee! Mine was not so.

Never again deluding love shall know me,
        For I will die;
And all those griefs that think to overgrow me
        Shall be as I:
For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry—
        ‘Alas, for pity stay,
        And let us die
With thee! Men cannot mock us in the clay.’