As fair as morn, as fresh as May
J. Wilbye
As fair as morn, as fresh as May
a pretty grace in saying Nay;
smil'st thou sweet heart? then sing and say
ta na na no.
But O that love-enchanting eye,
lo here my doubtful doom I try:
Tell me my sweet, live I or die?
She smiles. She frowns. Ay me, I die.