Song

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.