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.'