What can I do, my dearest of the sweet help deprived Of those thy fair eyes, by which I still have lived? How can my soul endure, thus charg'd with sadness, Exile from thy dear sight so full of gladness?
What can I do, my dearest of the sweet help deprived Of those thy fair eyes, by which I still have lived? How can my soul endure, thus charg'd with sadness, Exile from thy dear sight so full of gladness?