Tired I am, and so is my brain,

Which of late has thought too hard.

Now its about to go steadily insane,

For the truth has come to this bard

My sulking soul is weary too,

Even though I don't know why.

God is and was in naught I do,

Thus I think that in hell I'll fry.

My heart is weariest, with no doubt,

For you I've loved with all my life,

And I love no one from without.

Yet my heart is bogged with strife,

For though it remains to you faithful,

You to it have seemed to stay disdainful.