Flow my teares fall from your springs, 
Exilde for ever: Let me morne 
Where nights black bird hir sad infamy sings, 
There let me live forlorne. 

Downe vaine lights shine you no more, 
No nights are dark enough for those 
That in dispaire their last fortunes deplore, 
Light doth but shame disclose. 

Never may my woes be relieved, 
Since pittie is fled, 
And teares, and sighes, and grones 
My wearie days of all joyes have deprived. 

From the highest spire of contentment, 
My fortune is throwne, 
And feare, and griefe, and paine 
For my deserts, are my hopes since hope is gone. 

Hark you shadowes that in darnesse dwell, 
Learn to contemne light, 
Happy that in [bad word] 
Feele not the worlds despite.