| |
|
The
nightingale, as soon as April bringeth
Unto her
rested sense a perfect waking,
While late bare earth,
proud of new clothing, springeth,
Sings out her woes,
a thorn her song-book making,
And, mournfully
bewailing,
Her throat in tunes expresseth
What
grief her breast oppresseth,
For Tereus' force on her
chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela fair, O take
some gladness,
That here is juster cause of plaintful
sadness:
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth;
Thy
thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Alas,
she hath no other cause of anguish
But Tereus' love,
on her by strong hand wroken,
Wherein she suffering,
all her spirits languish,
Full womanlike complains
her will was broken.
But I, who, daily craving,
Cannot have to content me,
Have more cause to lament
me,
Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness,
That here
is juster cause of plaintful sadness:
Thine earth now
springs, mine fadeth;
Thy thorn without, my thorn my
heart invadeth.
|
|
|
