Take my heart, Lady, take my heart—
Take it, for it is yours, my sweet,
So yours it is, that 'twere not meet
Another shared its slightest part.

So, yours, if yours it pine and die,
Then yours, all yours, shall be the blame,
And there below, your soul in shame
Shall rue such bitter cruelty.

Were you a savage Scythian's child,
Yet love, that turns the tigers mild,
Would melt you at my sighing.

But you, more cruel-fierce than they,
Have set your will my heart to slay,
And live but through my dying.