An Anachronist's Lament

Alas, my lady, you drive me mad
With that song you are singing unceasing
From morn until night, it is all I hear
And my patience is slowly decreasing

Greensleeves, is that all you know?
On the lute to pluck, on the pipe to blow
If you soon don't change your tune
I fear you will soon be black and blue-sleeves