Ye restless thoughts, that harbour discontent,
Cease your assaults and let my heart lament,
And let my tongue have leave to tell my grief,
That she may pity, though not grant relief.
Pity would help, alas, what love hath almost slain,
And salve the wound that fester'd this disdain.

(C) John Wilbye
03/30/2017


Best Poems of John Wilbye

• Happy, O Happy He
• The Lady Oriana
• Fly, Love, Aloft
• I Always Beg
• Thus Saith My Cloris Bright
• O Wretched Man!
• Ong Have I Made These Hills And Valleys Weary
• I Love, Alas! Yet Am Not Loved
• Ah! Cannot Sighs Not Tears
• What Needeth All This Travail?
• Thou Art But Young, Thou Say-st
• Dear Pity, How, Ah!
• A Silly Sylvan, Kissing Heavn-born Fire
• When Shall My Wretched Life
• Alas! What A Wretched Life Is This!
• As Matchless Beauty
• Away, Thou Shalt Not Love Me
• O Fools! Can You Not See
• There Is A Jewel
• I Sung Sometimes
• Lady, When I Behold The Roses Sprouting