Flow my teares fall from your springs,
Exilde for ever: Let me morne
Where nights black bird hir sad infamy sings,
There let me live forlorne.
Downe vaine lights shine you no more,
No nights are dark enough for those
That in dispaire their last fortunes deplore,
Light doth but shame disclose.
Never may my woes be relieved,
Since pittie is fled,
And teares, and sighes, and grones
My wearie days of all joyes have deprived.
From the highest spire of contentment,
My fortune is throwne,
And feare, and griefe, and paine
For my deserts, are my hopes since hope is gone.
Hark you shadowes that in darnesse dwell,
Learn to contemne light,
Happy that in hell
Feele not the worlds despite.
- Can She Excuse My Wrongs?
- 'Right Honorable: As I Have Bin Most Bound Unto Your Honor...'
- Flow, My Tears (Lachrimae)
- Have You Seen The Bright Lily Grow
- '...Then In Time Passing On Mr. Johnson Died...'
- The Most High And Mighty Christianus The Fourth, King Of Denmark, His Galliard
- The Lowest Trees Have Tops
- '...And According As I Desired Ther Cam A Letter...'
- Fine Knacks For Ladies
- '...From Thenc I Went To Landgrave Of Hessen...'
- Come, Heavy Sleep
- Forlorn Hope Fancy
- '...And From Thence I Had Great Desire To See Italy...'
- Come Again
- Wilt Thou Unkind Thus Reave Me
- '...After My Departures I Caled To Mynde Our Conference...'
- Weep You No More, Sad Fountain
- My Lord Willoughby's Welcome Home
- Clear Or Cloudy
- '...Men Say That The Kinge Of Spain Is Making Gret Preparation...'
- In Darkness Let Me Dwell