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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