Ch. 808: XVI

XVI

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 wind

All 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 sworn

Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:

Vow, alack, for youth unmeet,

Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet!

Thou for whom Jove would swear

Juno but an Ethiope were,

And deny himself for Jove,

Turning mortal for thy love.”