Lie down, poor heart

Lie downe, poore heart and die a while for griefe

thinke not that this world will ever do thee good,

fortune forewarnes ye looke to thy reliefe,

and sorrow sucks upon thy living bloud,

then this is all can helpe thee of this hell,

lie downe and die and then thou shalt doe well.

Day gives his light but to thy labours toyle

And night her rest but to thy weary bones

Thy fairest fortune follows with a foyle:

And laughing endes but with their after grones

then this is all can helpe thee of thy hell,

lie downe and die and then thou shalt doe well.

Patience doth pine and pitty ease no paine,

Time weares the thoughts but nothing helps the mind,

Dead and alive alive and dead againe:

These are the fits that thou art like to finde.

then this is all can helpe thee of thy hell,

lie downe and die and then thou shalt doe well.