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, Wished 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.'