O
LY not,
Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure; Fold me thy wings,
I prithee, yet and stay: For my heart no measure Knows, nor other
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
Of fair love lost for ever and a day.
