Ann Mounsey Bartholomew
2 voix · Voice, Piano
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If love be life, I long to die, Live they that list, for me; And he that gains the most thereby, A fool, at least, shall be: But he that feels the sorest fits, 'Scapes with no less than loss of wits. Unhappy life they gain, Which love do entertain. In day, by fained looks, they live; By lying dreams, at night; Each frown, a deadly wound doth give; Each smile, a false delight. If't hap' their Lady pleasant seem, It is for other's love they deem; If void she seems of joy, Disdain doth make her coy. Such is the peace that lovers find, Such is the life they lead; Blown here and there with ev'ry wind, Like flowers in the mead. Now war, now peace, now war again; Desire, despair, delight, disdain. Though dead, in midst of life; In peace, and yet in strife.
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