To sycamores
F. Hart
I'm sick of love: O let me lie
Under your shades to sleep or die!
Either is welcome, so here I have
Or here my bed, or here my grave.
Why do ye sigh, and sob, and keep
Time with the tears that I do weep?
Can ye have sense, or do ye prove
What crucifixions are in love?
I know ye do, and that's the why
Ye weep, being sick of love as I.