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Francis Pilkington

F I R S T   B O O K E   O F
Songs or Ayres of 4.parts:

1 6 0 5


XV. I sigh as sure to weare the fruit of the Willow tree.

I sigh as sure to weare the fruit of the Willow tree, 
I sigh as sure to lose my sute, for it may not bee. 
I sigh as one that loues in vaine, I sigh as one that liues in paine, 
Very sorie, very weary of my miserie. 

2   I hate my thoughts which like the Flie, flutter in the flame, 
I hate my teares which drop, and dry, quench and frid the same : 
I hate the hart which frozen burnes, I hate the hart which chosen turnes, 
Too and from mee, making of mee nothing but a game. 

3   My thoughts are fuell to desire, which my hart doth moue, 
My teares are oyle to feed the fire, smart whereof I proue : 
She laughes at sighes that come from mee, I sigh at laughes in her so free, 
Who doth glory, in the storie of my sorie loue. 

4   Her louely lookes, and louelesse mind doe not well agree, 
Her quick conceipt, and iudgement blind, as ill suted bee : 
Her forward wit, and froward hart, that like to knit, this glad to part, 
Makes so prettie, and so wittie, not to pittie mee. 

5   The more I seeke, the lesse I find what to trust vnto, 
The more I hold, the lesse I bind, she doth still vndoe : 
I weaue the web of idle loue, which endles will, and frutles proue, 
If the pleasure for the measure of my treasure goe. 


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