Good men, shew, if you can tell

Good men, shew, if you can tell,

Where doth humane pittie dwell?

Farre and neere her would I seeke,

So vext with sorrow is my brest.

She, ( they say ) to all, is meeke,

And onely makes th' vnhappie blest.

Oh! if such a Saint there be,

Some hope yet remaines for me:

Prayer or sacrifice may gaine

From her implored grace reliefe;

To release mee of my paine,

Or at the least to ease my griefe.

Young am I, and farre from guile,

The more is my woe the while:

Falshood with a smooth disguise

My simple meaning hath abus'd:

Casting mists before mine eyes,

By which my senses are confus'd.

Fair he is, who vow'd to me

That he onely mine would be;

But, alas, his minde is caught

With eu'ry gaudie bait he sees:

And too late my flame is taught

That too much kindnesse makes men freese.

From me all my friends are gone,

While I pine for him alone;

And not one will rue my case,

But rather my distresse deride:

That I thinke there is no place

Where pittie euer yet did bide.