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A Pilgrimes Solace

I o h n   D o w l a n d



5. Shall I striue with wordes to moue.

      Shall I striue with wordes to moue, when deedes receiue not due regard ?
      Shall I speake, and neyther please, nor be freely heard ?
      Griefe alas though all in vaine, her restlesse anguish must reueale :
      Shee alone my wound shall know, though shee will not heale.
      All woes haue end, though a while delaid, our patience prouing :
      O that times strange effects could but make her louing.
      Stormes calme at last, and why may not shee leaue off her frowning ?
      O sweet Loue, help her hands my affection crowning.
      I woo'd her, I lou'd her, and none but her admire.
      O come deare ioy, and answere my desire.


Online text copyright ©, Harald Lillmeyer