ANd art thou grieved, sweet and sacred Dove,
                         When I am sowre,
                         And crosse thy love?
Grieved for me? the God of stength and power
                Griev’d for a worm, which when I tread,
                I passe away and leave it dead?

Then weep mine eyes, the God of love doth grieve:
                         Weep foolish heart,
                         And weeping live:
For death is drie as dust. Yet if ye part,
                End as the night, whose sable hue
                Your sinnes expresse; melt into dew.

When sawcie1 mirth shall knock or call at doore,
                      Cry out, Get hence,
                         Or cry no more.
Almightie God doth grieve, he puts on sense:
                I sinne not to my grief alone,
                But to my Gods too; he doth grone.

Oh take thy lute, and tune it to a strain,
                         Which may with thee
                         All day complain.
There can no discord but in ceasing be.
                Marbles can weep; and surely strings
                More bowels have, then such hard things.

Lord, I adjudge my self to tears and grief,
                         Ev’n endlesse tears
                         Without relief.
If a cleare spring for me no time forbears,
                But runnes, although I be not drie;
                I am no Crystall, what shall I?

Yet if I wail not still, since still to wail
                         Nature denies;
                         And flesh would fail,
If my deserts were masters of mine eyes:
                Lord, pardon, for thy Sonne makes good
             My want of tears with store of bloud.