1. From the sad lute that grieves at eventide
With heart sore wounded and spirit troubled,

2. To the cheek that hath robbed my heart of sleep
And made my tears flow in anguished rapture,

3. The sleepers slumber, but my eyes find rest
Only in weeping and sad lamenting,

4. Could letters speak, then on your book, my soul,
Would weep unrestrained, and win your mercy.