Long have I made these hills

Long have I made these hills and valleys weary

With noise of these my cries that fill the air.

She only who should make me merry

Hears not my prayer,

That I alas, misfortune's son and heir,

Hope in none other hope but in despair

If thus my death may please thee,

Then die I will to ease thee.

Yet if I die the world will thee control

And write upon my tomb, "O sweet departure

Lo here lies one (Alas poor soul)

A true Love's Martyr."