The Lover, hopeless of greater Happiness, contenteth himself with only Pity

THO’ I cannot your cruelty constrain,

For my good will to favour me again;

Though my true and faithful love

Have no power your heart to move,

Yet rue upon my pain!

Tho’ I your thrall must evermore remain,

And for your sake my liberty restrain;

The greatest grace that I do crave

Is that ye would vouchsave

To rue upon my pain!

Though I have not deserved to obtain

So high reward, but thus to serve in vain,

Though I shall have no redress,

Yet of right ye can no less,

But rue upon my pain!

But I see well, that your high disdain

Will no wise grant that I shall more attain;

Yet ye must grant at the last

This my poor, and small request;

Rejoice not at my pain!