Shall I strive with words to move

Shall I strive with words to move,

When deeds receive not due regard?

Shall I speak, and neither please,

Nor be freely heard?

Grief, alas, though all in vain,

Her restless anguish must reveal:

She alone my wound shall know,

Though she will not heal.

All woes have end,

though awhile delay'd,

Our patience proving.

O that Time's strange effects

Could but make, but make her loving.

Storms calm at last,

and why may not she

Leave off her frowning?

O sweet Love, help her hands

My affection crowning.

I woo'd her, I lov'd her,

and none but her admire.

O come, dear joy,

And answer my desire.