Follow Your Saint, Follow With Accents Sweet; Haste You, Sad Notes, Fall At Her Flying Feet. There, Wrapp'D In Cloud Of Sorrow, Pity Move, And Tell The Ravisher Of My Soul I Perish For Her Love: But If She Scorns My Never-Ceasing Pain, Then Burst With Sighing In Her Sight And Ne'er Return Again. All That I Sung Still To Her Praise Did Tend, Still She Was First; Still She My Songs Did End; Yet She My Love And Music Both Doth Fly, The Music That Her Echo Is And Beauty'S Sympathy. Then Let My Notes Pursue Her Scornful Flight: It Shall Suffice That They Were Breath'D And Died For Her Delight.