Song

O FLY not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure;
 Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay:
     For my heart no measure
     Knows, nor other treasure
To buy a garland for my love to-day.

And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow,
 Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away:
     For I fain would borrow
     Thy sad weeds to-morrow,
 To make a mourning for love's yesterday.

The voice of Pity, Time's divine dear Pity,
 Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay,
     But passed forth from the city,
     Making thus my ditty
Of fair love lost for ever and a day.