All night I muse, all day I cry,
Yet still I wish, though still deny,
I sigh, I mourn, and say that still
I only live my joys to kill,
I feed the pain that on me feeds,
My wound I stop not, though it bleeds,
Heart, be content, it must be so,
For springs were made to overflow,
Then sigh and weep, and mourn thy fill,
Seek no redress, but languish still,
Their griefs more willing they endure
That know when they are past recure.
