Phyllis

Poor credulous and simple maid!
By what strange wiles art thou betrayed!
A treasure thou hast lost today
For which thou can'st no ransom pay.
How black art thou transformed with sin!
How strange a guilt gnaws me within!
Grief will convert this red to pale;
When every wake, and witsund ale
Shall talk my shame; break, break sad heart
There is no medicene for my smart,
No herb nor balm can cure my sorrow,
Unless you meet me again tomorrow.

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