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To the same tune
THE NIGHTINGALE—as soon as April bringeth | |
| Unto her rested sense, a perfect waking; | |
| While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth— | |
| Sings out her woes, a thorn her song book making. | |
| And mournfully bewailing, | 5 |
| Her throat in tunes expresseth | |
| What grief her breast oppresseth | |
| For THEREUS’ force, on her chaste will prevailing. | |
| O PHILOMELA fair! O take some gladness! | |
| That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness. | 10 |
| Thine earth now springs! mine fadeth; | |
| Thy thorn without! my thorn my heart invadeth. | |
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| Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish | |
| But THEREUS’ love; on her, by strong hand wroken; | |
| Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, | 15 |
| Full woman-like, complains her will was broken. | |
| But I—who, daily craving, | |
| Cannot have to content me— | |
| Have more cause to lament me; | |
| Since wanting is more woe than too much having. | 20 |
| O PHILOMELA fair! O take some gladness! | |
| That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness. | |
| Thine earth now springs! mine fadeth: | |
| Thy thorn without! my thorn my heart invadeth. | |
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