Shall I strive with wordes to move, when deedes receive not due regard? Shall I speake, and neyther please, nor be freely heard? Griefe alas though all in vaine, her restlesse anguish must reveale: Shee alone my wound shall know, though shee will not heale. All woes have end, though a while delaid, our patience proving. Oh that time's strange effects could but make her loving. Stormes calme at last, and why may not shee leave off her frowning? Oh sweet Love, help her hands My affection crowning. I woo'd her, I lov'd her, and none but her admire. O come deare joy, and answere my desire.
https://primanota.net/john-dowland/shall-i-strive-with-words-to-move-lyrics.htm