Mary Wroth
All night I weep, all day I cry, Ay me;
I still doe wish though yet deny, Ay me;
I sigh, I mourn, and say that still
I only am the store for ill, Ay me;
In coldest hopes I freeze, yet burn, Ay me;
From flames I strive to fly, yet turn, Ay me;
From grief I haste but sorrows hie,
And on my heart all woes do lie, Ay me;
From contraries I seek to run, Ay me;
But contraries I cannot shun, Ay me;
For they delight their force to try,
And to despair my thoughts do tie, Ay me;
Whither (alas) then shall I go, Ay me;
When as despair all hopes outgo, Ay me;
If to the Forest, Cupid hies,
And my poor soul to his law ties, Ay me;
To the Court? O no. He cries fie, Ay me;
there no true love you shall espy, Ay me;
Leave that place to falsest lovers
your true love all truth discovers, Ay me;
Then quiet rest, and no more prove, Ay me;
All places are alike to love, Ay me;
And constant be in this begun
Yet say, till life with love be done, Ay me.