Vnto that God that shar’d the Realmes belowe.
Ah sigh no more: alas: appeace your woes,
For by your griefe my griefe more eager growes.
[Chorus.]
Alas, with what tormenting fire.
Vs martireth this blinde desire
To staie our life from flieng!
How ceasleslie our minds doth rack,
How heauie lies vpon our back
This dastard feare of dieng!