John Fletcher

Away, Delights  

AWAY, delights !  go seek some other dwelling,
              For I must die.
Farewell, false love !  thy tongue is ever telling
              Lie after lie.
For ever let me rest now from thy smarts ;
              Alas, for pity go
              And fire their hearts
That have been hard to thee !  Mine was not so.

Never again deluding love shall know me,
              For I will die ;
And all those griefs that think to overgrow me
              Shall be as I :
For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry—
              ‘ Alas, for pity stay,
              And let us die
With thee !  Men cannot mock us in the clay.’

The Oxford Book of English Verse.
Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed.
Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1919. 237-238.


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