Flow my teares fall from your springs, Exilde for ever: Let me morne Where nights black bird hir sad infamy sings, There let me live forlorne. Downe vaine lights shine you no more, No nights are dark enough for those That in dispaire their last fortunes deplore, Light doth but shame disclose. Never may my woes be relieved, Since pittie is fled, And teares, and sighes, and grones My wearie days of all joyes have deprived. From the highest spire of contentment, My fortune is throwne, And feare, and griefe, and paine For my deserts, are my hopes since hope is gone. Hark you shadowes that in darnesse dwell, Learn to contemne light, Happy that in hell Feele not the worlds despite.