Follow Your Saint

Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet;

Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet.

There, wrapp'd in cloud of sorrow, pity move,

And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:

But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,

Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again.

All that I sung still to her praise did tend,

Still she was first; still she my songs did end;

Yet she my love and music both doth fly,

The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy.

Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight:

It shall suffice that they were breath'd and died for her delight.