FAREWELL, farewell, fond love, under whose childish whip I have served out a weary 'prenticeship. Farewell, thou that hast made me thy scorned property, To dote on those that lovéd not, And to fly those that wooéd me: Go, bane of my content, and practise on some other patient. My woeful monument shall be a cell The murmur of the purling brook, my knell; And for my epitaph the rocks shall groan Eternally: if any ask this stone, What wretched thing doth in this compass lie, The hollow Echo shall reply, ' 'Tis I, 'tis I', The hollow Echo shall reply, ' 'Tis I.' Farewell, farewell. |