Where the joy that, once my guest,
Now doth ever from me flee ?
Come, for if thy face I see,
Thou wilt all my grief arrest.
Echo : Rest.
Rest how gladly, could I find
That which still from me will go:
In these mountains stern, unkind,
What relief canst thou bestow ?
Echo : Woe.
Woe, then take my life away,
So wilt thou leave me alone,
Who know not if it is gone
Now, such grief doth on me weigh.
Echo : Away.