| From silent night, true register of moanes
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| From saddest Soule consumde with deepest sinnes
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| From hart quite rent with sighes and heavie groanes
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| My wayling Muse her wofull worke beginnes.
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| And to the world brings tunes of sad despaire
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| Sounding nought else but sorrow, griefe and care.
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| Sorrow to see my sorrowes cause augmented
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| And yet lesse sorrowfull were my sorrowes more
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| Griefe that my griefe with griefe is not prevented
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| For griefe it is must east my grieved sore.
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| Thus griefe and sorrow cares but how to grieve
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| For griefe and sorrow must my cares relieve.
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| If any eye therefore can spare a teare
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| To fill the well-spring that must wet my cheekes
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| O let that eye to this sad feast draw neere
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| Refuse me not my humble soule beseekes
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| For all the teares mine eyes have ever wept
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| Were now too little had they all beene kept. |