Sound hoarse, sad lute, true witnesse of my woe,
And striue no more to ease selfe-chosen paine
With soule-enchanting sounds; your accents straine
Vnto these teares vncessantly which flow.
Shrill treeble, weepe, and you, dull basses, show
Your master's sorrow in a deadly vaine;
Let neuer ioyfull hand vpon you goe,
Nor consort keepe but when you doe complaine.
Flie Phaebus' rayes, nay, hate the irkesome light;
Woods, solitarie shades, for thee are best,
Or the blacke horrours of the blackest night,
When all the world, saue thou and I, doth rest:
Then sound, sad lute, and beare a mourning part,
Thou hell may'st mooue, though not a woman's heart.