Бёрд Уильям - Constant Penelope - текст песни (слова)

Constant Penelope, sends to thee carelesse Ulisses,
 write not againe, but come sweet mate thy selfe to revive mee.
 Troy wee doe much envie, wee desolate lost Ladies of Greece:
 Not Priamus, nor yet all Troy can us recompence make.
 Oh, that hee had when hee first tooke shipping to Lacedemon,
 that adulter I meane, had beene o'rewhelmed with waters:
 Then had I not lien now all alone, thus quivering for cold,
 nor used this complaint, nor have thought the day to bee so long.
 Ovid, Heroides I, tr. ?Thomas Watson (c.1557-1592)