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.