John Fletcher (1579–1625)

AWAY, delights! go seek some other dwelling,

For I must die.

Farewell, false love! thy tongue is ever telling

Lie after lie.

For ever let me rest now from thy smarts;

Alas, for pity, go,

And fire their hearts

That have been hard to thee! Mine was not so.

Never again deluding love shall know me,

For I will die;

And all those griefs that think to overgrow me,

Shall be as I:

For ever will I sleep, while poor maids cry—

‘Alas, for pity stay,

And let us die

With thee! Men cannot mock us in the clay.’