1 Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet; 2 Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet. 3 There, wrapp'd in cloud of sorrow, pity move, 4 And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love: 5 But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, 6 Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again. 7 All that I sung still to her praise did tend, 8 Still she was first; still she my songs did end; 9 Yet she my love and music both doth fly, 10 The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy. 11 Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight: 12 It shall suffice that they were breath'd and died for her delight.