As oftentimes the too resplendent sun,
hurries the pallid and reluctant moon,
back to her sombre cave... ere she hath won,
a single ballad from the nightindale,
so doth thy beauty... make my lips to fail,
and all my sweetest singing out of tune.
And as dawn across the level mead,
on wings impetous... some wind will come,
And with its too harsh kisses... break the reed,
wich was its only intrument of song,
so my too stormy passions... work me wrong,
and for excess of love... my love is dumb.
But surely unto thee... mine eyes did show,
why i am silent... and my lute unstrung;
else it were better... we should part... and go,
thou to some lips of sweeter melody,
and i to nurse the barren memory,
of unkissed kisses... and songs never sung.
