If any hath the heart to kill

If any hath the heart to kill,
Come rid me of this woeful pain!
For while I live I suffer still
This cruel torment all in vain:
Yet none alive but one can guess
What is the cause of my distress.

Thanks be to heaven, no grievous smart,
No maladies my limbs annoy;
I bear a fond and sprightful heart,
Yet live I quite deprived of joy:
Since what I had in vain I crave,
And what I had not now I have.

A love I had, so fair, so sweet,
As ever wanton eye did see:
Once by appointment we did meet:
She would, but ah, it would not be!
She gave her heart, her hand she gave;
All did I give, she nought could have.

What hag did then my powers forespeak,
That never yet such taint did feel!
Now she rejects me as one weak,
Yet am I all composed of steel.
Ah, this is it my heart doth grieve:
Now though she sees, she'll not believe.