Can she excuse my wrongs, with Virtue’s cloak? Should I call you kind when you leave me cold? Every flame of passion burns down into smoke; All leaves, no fruit, no truth for me to hold. No—your shadow is all that's left when the room goes dim; I keep begging you to be who I need you to be. You write your love in sand; the tide comes rushing in, And every bubble breaks before it reaches me. Will I let you hurt me still? You know how to make this right. If I keep chasing what you won’t give, We end up in another fruitless fight. << Ridiculous Over-the-top Lute Arpeggios >> Was I wrong to want the warmth you keep from me? The more you pull away, the more I want to believe. If you deny me everything, what can you give? What kind of love can leave me starving while I live? If love is meant to be fair, then meet me halfway; Don’t make me beg for your love every day. Give me something real, or tell me we’re through; Don’t keep me waiting on a maybe from you. Will I let you hurt me still? You won’t make this right. If I keep chasing what you won’t give, I'll lose myself tonight. I’d rather watch what we have die, Than go through this pain again; But if you tell the story, make sure you say, That I stayed until the end. ----------------------------------------- Original John Dowland 1597 Lyrics ----------------------------------------- Can she excuse my wrongs with Virtue’s cloak? Shall I call her good when she proves unkind? Are those clear fires which vanish into smoke? Must I praise the leaves where no fruit I find? No, no; where shadows do for bodies stand, That may’st be abus’d if thy sight be dim. Cold love is like to words written on sand, Or to bubbles which on the water swim. Wilt thou be thus abused still, Seeing that she will right thee never? If thou canst not o’ercome her will, Thy love will be thus fruitless ever. Was I so base, that I might not aspire Unto those high joys which she holds from me? As they are high, so high is my desire, If she this deny, what can granted be? If she will yield to that which reason is, It is reason’s will that love should be just. Dear, make me happy still by granting this, Or cut off delays if that die I must. Better a thousand times to die Than for to love thus still tormented: Dear, but remember it was I Who for thy sake did die contented.
