On a day, alack the day

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,

Wish'd 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."