My Throat Is Sore

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.