XVIOn 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 windAll 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 swornNe’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:Vow, alack, for youth unmeet,Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet!Thou for whom Jove would swearJuno but an Ethiope were,And deny himself for Jove,Turning mortal for thy love.”
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 windAll 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 swornNe’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:Vow, alack, for youth unmeet,Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet!Thou for whom Jove would swearJuno but an Ethiope were,And deny himself for Jove,Turning mortal for thy love.”