Done Moy Plus De Pitie Ou Plus De Creaulte, 
Car Sans Ci Ie Ne Puis Pas Viure, Ne Morir

                    I.
Divine Destroyer, pitty me no more,
     Or else more pitty me;
Give me more love, ah, quickly give me more,
     Or else more cruelty!
       For left thus as I am,
       My heart is ice and flame;
     And languishing thus, I
     Can neither live nor dye!

                    II.
Your glories are eclipst, and hidden in the grave
     Of this indifferency;
And, Caelia, you can neither altars have,
     Nor I, a Diety:
       They are aspects divine,
       That still or smile, or shine,
     Or, like th' offended sky,
     Frowne death immediately.