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What Is This World to Me?
What is this world to me?
A harp sans melodie;
A dream of vain idlesse,
A thought of bitterness,
That grieves the aching brain,
And gnaws the heart in twain!
My spirit pines allwaie,
Like captive shut from day;
Or like a sillie flower,
Estranged from sun and shower—
Which, withering, soon must die,
In love-lorne privacie.
No joye my hearte doth finde,
With those they calle my kinde;
O dull it is and sad,
To see how men waxe bad:
As Autumn leaves decay,
So verteue fades away!
