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.”