My lady dearly loves a pretty bird,
That sings and echoes back her gentle tone,
Were I, too, near her, never should be heard,
A songster’s note more pleasant than my own,
Sweeter than sweetest nightingale I’d sing.
For thee, my lady fair,
This yoke of love I bear.
Deign thou to comfort me, and ease my sorrowing.
Were but the troubles of my heart by her
Regarded, I would triumph in my pain;
But her proud heart stands firmly, and the stir
Of passionate grief o’ercomes not her distain,
Yet, yet I do remember how before
My eyes she stood and spoke,
And on her gentle look
My earnest gaze was fixed:
Oh, were it so once more.