Say, dear, when will your frowning leave, Which doth my heart of joy bereave, To sing and play becomes you better, Such pleasures makes my heart your debtor, But when you frown you wound my heart, And kill my soul, with double smart.
Say, dear, when will your frowning leave, Which doth my heart of joy bereave, To sing and play becomes you better, Such pleasures makes my heart your debtor, But when you frown you wound my heart, And kill my soul, with double smart.