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William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Elizabethan Verse. 1907.

Come, Sorrow, Come


COME, Sorrow, come, sit down and mourn with me;

Hang down thy head upon thy baleful breast,

That God and man and all the world may see

Our heavy hearts do live in quiet rest:

Enfold thine arms and wring thy wretched hands

To shew the State wherein poor Sorrow stands.

Cry not outright, for that were children’s guise,

But let thy tears fall trickling down thy face,

And weep so long until thy blubbered eyes

May see in sum the depth of thy disgrace.

Oh shake thy head, but not a word but mum;

The heart once dead, the tongue is stroken dumb.

And let our fare be dishes of despite

To break our hearts and not our fasts withal;

Then let us sup with sorrow-sops at night,

And bitter sauce all of a broken gall:

Thus let us live till heavens may rue to see

The doleful doom ordained for thee and me.