And never kill whom you cannot love.
It was well for me had I never been born,
To die a death of public scorn,
In youth and bloom on the fatal tree,
Oh God in mercy look down on me.
Petitions have in my favour been
Sent from Warwick town to my gracious Queen,
But alas no mercy is there for me,
And I must die on the fatal tree.
Three weeks I have lain in a gloomy cell,