ds i must hide that will soon be my dead.
the day es to me, but delight brings me nane;
the night es to me, but my rest it is gane;
i wander my ne like a night-troubled ghaist,
and i sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
o had she but been of a lree,
i then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
o how past descriving had then been my bliss,
as now my distra nae words express.