Iv

Thy locks are all of sunny sheen In rings of gold yronne, All in the bloomèd May, We pri’thee pass not on; If thou dost leave the sun, Delight is with thee gone, Oh! stay. Thou art the fairest of thy feres, We pri’thee pass not on.

His crispè hair in ringis was yronne.— Chaucer, Knight’s Tale. (Tennyson’s note.)

Song—“Every day hath its night...”