Song

O fly not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure; Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay: For my heart no measure Knows, or other treasure To buy a garland for my love to-day.

And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow, Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away: For I fain would borrow Thy sad weeds to-morrow, To make a mourning for love’s yesterday.

The voice of Pity, Time’s divine dear Pity, Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay, But passed forth from the city, Making thus my ditty Of fair love lost forever and a day.