My Throat Is Sore

John Wilbye

My throat is sore, my voice is hoarse with skriking,
My rests are sighs, deep from the heart-s root fetched;
My song runs all on sharps, and with oft striking
Time on my breast, I shrink with hands outstretched;
Thus still, and still I sing, and ne-er am linning,
For still the close points to my first beginning.

(C) John Wilbye
01/01/2000

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