The Lover complaineth that his Love doth not pity him

RESOUND my voice, ye woods, that hear me plain:

Both hills and vales causing reflexion;

And rivers eke, record ye of my pain,

Which have oft forced ye by compassion,

As judges, lo, to hear my exclamation:

Among whom ruth, I find, yet doth remain;

Where I it seek, alas, there is disdain.

Oft, ye rivers, to hear my woful sound

Have stopt your course: and plainly to express

Many a tear by moisture of the ground,

The earth hath wept to hear my heaviness:

Which causeless I endure without redress.

The hugy oaks have roared in the wind:

Each thing, methought, complaining in their kind

Why then, alas, doth not she on me rue?

Or is her heart so hard that no pity

May in it sink, my joy for to renew?

O stony heart, who hath thus framed thee

So cruel; that art cloaked with beauty;

That from thee may no grace to me proceed,

But as reward, death for to be my meed?