Like truthless dreams, so are my joys expir'd, 
And past return are all my dandled days; 
My love misled, and fancy quite retir'd-- 
Of all which pass'd the sorrow only stays. 

My lost delights, now clean from sight of land, 
Have left me all alone in unknown ways; 
My mind to woe, my life in fortune's hand-- 
Of all which pass'd the sorrow only stays. 

As in a country strange, without companion, 
I only wail the wrong of death's delays, 
Whose sweet spring spent, whose summer well-nigh done-- 
Of all which pass'd only the sorrow stays. 

Whom care forewarns, ere age and winter cold, 
To haste me hence to find my fortune's fold.