On a day, alack the day!
Love, whose month was ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air.
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen ’gan passage find,
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath:
“Air,” quoth he, “thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alas, my hand hath sworn
Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet,
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet!
Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were,
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.”