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The First Booke Of Songes∶ No. 4, The First Booke Of Songes
John Dowland
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If my complaints could passion's love
From me clasp see, were in my suffer wrong?
I passion's fair enough to prove
That my despair hath got me to long
Alas! I live and die in thee
Thy grief in my deep sighs is mixed
Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me
My heart for thy unkindness breaks
Yet thou dost know I lie despair
And when I hope, thou vex't me hope in vain
Roses thou canst my harms repair
Yet for redress thou let'st me still complain
Can love be neat, and yet I want?
Is love my doubt, and yet my heart content?
Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant
Thou made a god, and yet thy poor content
That I do live, it is thy power
That I desire, it is thy worth
If love doth make his life to sour
That me not lie, nor leave him swarth
Die shall my hopes, but not my faith
That you that of my fall may hear me speak
May hear despair, which truly saith
I was more true to love than love to me!