From silent night, true register of moanes
From saddest Soule consumde with deepest sinnes
From hart quite rent with sighes and heavie groanes
My wayling Muse her wofull worke beginnes.
And to the world brings tunes of sad despaire
Sounding nought else but sorrow, griefe and care.
Sorrow to see my sorrowes cause augmented
And yet lesse sorrowfull were my sorrowes more
Griefe that my griefe with griefe is not prevented
For griefe it is must east my grieved sore.
Thus griefe and sorrow cares but how to grieve
For griefe and sorrow must my cares relieve.
If any eye therefore can spare a teare
To fill the well-spring that must wet my cheekes
O let that eye to this sad feast draw neere
Refuse me not my humble soule beseekes
For all the teares mine eyes have ever wept
Were now too little had they all beene kept.