Die not before thy day, poor man condemned,
But lift thy low looks from the humble earth.
Kiss not Despair and see sweet Hope contemned;
The hag hath no delight but moan for mirth.
O fie, poor fondling, fie! Be willing
To preserve thyself from killing.
Hope, thy keeper, glad to free thee,
Bids thee go and will not see thee.
Hie thee quickly from thy wrong!
So she ends her willing song.