"There's not a swain"
di John Fletcher (1579-1625)

There's not a Swain, on the Plain,
would be bless'd like me, oh!
could you but on me smile;
but you appear so severe
that trembling with fear,
my heart goes pit-a-pat, all the while:
When I cry, must I die,
you make no reply, but look shy,
and with a scornful eye
kill me by your cruelty.
Oh! can you be so hard to me?