Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.

When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.

The moon shines bright. In such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees and they did make no noise, in such a night.

My only love sprung from my only hate.

When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.

Oh, God! I have an ill-divining soul!

This is the short and the long of it.