As it fell upon a day

           In the merry month of May,

           Sitting in a pleasant shade

           Which a grove of myrtles made,

           Beasts did leap and birds did sing,

           Trees did grow and plants did spring,

           Every thing did banish moan

           Save the Nightingale alone.

           She, poor bird, as all forlorn,

           Lean'd her breast against a thorn,

           And there sung the dolefullest ditty,

           That to hear it was great pity.

           Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;

           Tereu, tereu, by and by:

           That to hear her so complain

           Scarce I could from tears refrain;

           For her griefs so lively shown

           Made me think upon mine own.

           —Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,

           None takes pity on thy pain:

           Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,

           Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;

           King Pandion, he is dead,

           All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:

           All thy fellow birds do sing

           Careless of thy sorrowing:

           Even so, poor bird, like thee,

           None alive will pity me.

           Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,

           Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,

           Relieve my anguish, and restore the light;

           With dark forgetting of my care return.

           And let the day be time enough to mourn

           The shipwreck of my ill adventured youth:

           Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,

           Without the torment of the night's untruth.

           Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,

           To model forth the passions of the morrow;

           Never let rising Sun approve you liars

           To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:

           Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,

           And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

              Take O take those lips away

              That so sweetly were forsworn,

              And those eyes, the break of day,

              Lights that do mislead the morn:

              But my kisses bring again,

                        Bring again—

              Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,

                        Seal'd in vain!

           Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,—

           Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;

           And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,

           That thus so cleanly I myself can free;

           Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,

           And when we meet at any time again,

           Be it not seen in either of our brows

           That we one jot of former love retain.

           Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,

           When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,

           When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,

           And innocence is closing up his eyes,

           —Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,

           From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!

           My lute, be as thou wert when thou did'st grow

           With thy green mother in some shady grove,

           When immelodious winds but made thee move,

           And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.

           Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,

           Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,

           Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,

           What art thou but a harbinger of woe?

           Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,

           But orphan's wailings to the fainting ear;

           Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;

           For which be silent as in woods before:

           Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,

           Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.

           O me! what eyes hath love put in my head

           Which have no correspondence with true sight:

           Or if they have, where is my judgment fled

           That censures falsely what they see aright?

           If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,

           What means the world to say it is not so?

           If it be not, then love doth well denote,

           Love's eye is not so true as all men's: No,

           How can it? O how can love's eye be true,

           That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?

           No marvel then though I mistake my view:

           The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.

           O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,

           Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!

           While