Flow my teares fall from your springs,
Exilde for euer: Let mee morne
Where nights black bird hir sad infamy sings,
There let mee liue forlorne.
Downe vaine lights shine you no more,
No nights are dark enough for those
That in dispaire their last fortuns deplore,
Light doth but shame disclose.
Neuer may my woes be relieued,
Since pittie is fled,
And teares, and sighes, and grones my wearie dayes, my wearie dayes,
Of all ioyes haue depriued.
Frōm the highest spire of contentment,
My fortune is throwne,
And feare, and griefe, and paine for my deserts, for my deserts,
Are my hopes since hope is gone.
Harke you shadowes that in darcknesse dwell,
Learne to contemne light,
Happie, happie they that in hell
Feele not the worlds despite.
- John Dowland Post #198
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