I love, alas! yet am not loved,
For cruel she to pity is not moved.
My constant love with scorn she ill rewardeth,
Only my sighs a little she regardeth:
Yet more and more the quenchless fire increaseth,
Which, to my greater torment, never ceaseth.
More verses by John Wilbye
- I Sung Sometimes
- Lady, Your Words Do Spite Me
- Ong Have I Made These Hills And Valleys Weary
- Sweet Love, If Thou Wilt Gain
- The Lady Oriana