Follow Your Saint

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.