Joy that's half too keen, and true,
Makes us tears. Oh! the sweetness of the tears! If such joy at hand appears,
Snatch it, give thine all for it;
Joy that is so exquisite,
Lost, comes not new.
One blossom for a hundred years.
Grief that's fond and dies not
Makes delight. Oh! the pain of the delight! If thy grief be love's aright,
Tend it close and let it grow:
Grief so tender not to
Loses Love's boon.
Sweet Philomel sings all the night.
