O FLY not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure;   Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay:       For my heart no measure       Knows, nor other treasure To buy a garland for my love to-day.

And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow,   Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away:       For I fain would borrow       Thy sad weeds to-morrow,   To make a mourning for love's yesterday.

The voice of Pity, Time's divine dear Pity,   Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay,       But passed forth from the city,       Making thus my ditty Of fair love lost for ever and a day.