Love

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 up-till a thorn,

And there sung the dolefull'st

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 bears, they will not cheer thee.

King Pandion, he is dead

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead...