1 Her fayre inflaming eyes, Chiefe authors of my cares, I prai'd in humblest wise, With grace to view my teares : They beheld me broad awake, But alasse no ruth would take. 2 Her lips with kisses rich, And words of fayre delight, I fayrely did beseech To pitty my sad plight : But a voyce from them brake forth As a whirle-winde from the North. 3 Then to her hands I fled, That can giue heart and all, To them I long did plead, And loud for pitty call : But alas they put mee off, With a touch worse then a scoffe. 4 So backe I straight return'd, And at her breast I knock'd ; Where long in vaine I mourn'd, Her heart so fast was lock'd : Not a word could passage finde, For a Rocke inclos'd her minde. 5 Then downe my pray'rs made way To those most cornely parts, That make her flye or stay, As they affect deserts : But her angry feete thus mou'd Fled with all the parts I lou'd. 6 Yet fled they not so fast As her enraged minde : Still did I after haste, Still was I left behinde, Till I found 't was to no end With a Spirit to contend.
Online text copyright ©, Harald Lillmeyer