And art thou grieved, sweet and sacred Dove,

When I am sowre,

And crosse thy love?

Grieved for me? the God of strength and power

Griev'd for a worm, which when I tread,

I passe away and leave it dead?

Then weep mine eyes, the God of love doth grieve:

Weep foolish heart,

And weeping live:

For death is drie as dust. Yet if ye part,

End as the night, whose sable hue

Your sinnes expresse; melt into dew.

When sawcie mirth shall knock or call at doore,

Cry out, Get hence,

Or cry no more.

Almightie God doth grieve, he puts on sense:

I sinne not to my grief alone,

But to my Gods too; he doth grone.

Oh take thy lute, and tune it to a strain,

Which may with thee

All day complain.

There can no discord but in ceasing be.

Marbles can weep; and surely strings

More bowels have, then such hard things.

Lord, I adjudge my self to tears and grief,

Ev'n endlesse tears

Without relief.

If a cleare spring for me no time forbears,

But runnes, although I be not drie;

I am no Crystall, what shall I?

Yet if I wail not still, since still to wail

Nature denies;

And flesh would fail,

If my deserts were masters of mine eyes:

Lord, pardon, for thy sonne makes good

My want of tears with store of bloud.