Oh! would I were dead now,Or up in my bed now,To cover my head nowAnd have a good cry!
For my part getting up seems not so easyBy half as lying.
One more unfortunateWeary of breath,Rashly importunate,Gone to her death.
Such a blushIn the midst of brown was born,Like red poppies grown with corn.
Dreary rosmaryeThat always mourns the dead.
And there is even a happiness That makes the heart afraid.
That instant shutMy woeful self up in a mourning house,Raining the tears of lamentation.
Tears are the silent language of grief.
I had not so much of man in me,And all my mother came into my eyes,And gave me up to tears.
When we are born we cry that we are comeTo this great stage of fools.
When summoned hence to thine eternal sleep,Oh, may'st thou smile while all around thee weep.
Never a tear bedims the eyeThat time and patience will not dry.
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Then fresh tearsStood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dewUpon a gather'd lily almost wither'd.
See, see what showers arise,Blown with the windy tempest of my heart.
I cannot weep; for all my body's moistureScarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart.
Login ...
