The rushing rivers that do run,

The valleys sweet, adorned new,

That leans their sides against the sun,

With flowers fresh of sundry hue,

Both ash and elm, and oak so high,

Do all lament my woeful cry.

While winter black, with hideous storms

Doth spoil the ground of summer’s green,

While springtime sweet the leaf returns

That late on tree could not be seen,

While summer burns, while harvest reigns,

Still, still, do rage my restless pains.

No end I find in all my smart,

But endless torment I sustain

Since first, alas, my woeful heart

By sight of thee was forced to plain.

Since that I lost my liberty,

Since that thou mad’st a slave of me,

My heart that once abroad was free,

Thy beauty hath in durance brought.

Once reason ruled and guided me,

And now is wit consumed with thought;

Once I rejoiced above the sky,

And now for thee, alas, I die;

Once I rejoiced in company,

And now my chief and whole delight

Is from my friends away to fly

And keep alone my wearied sprite:

Thy face divine and my desire

From flesh hath me transformed to fire.

O Nature, thou that first did frame

My lady’s hair of purest gold,

Her face of crystal to the same,

Her lips of precious ruby’s mould,

Her neck of alablaster white,

Surmounting far each other wight,

Why didst thou not that time devise?

Why didst thou not foresee before

The mischief that thereof doth rise,

And grief on grief doth heap with store,

To make her heart of wax alone,

And not of flint and marble stone?

O lady, show thy favour yet,

Let not thy servant die for thee;

Where rigour ruled, let mercy sit;

Let pity conquer cruelty.

Let not disdain, a fiend of hell,

Possess the place where grace should dwell.