Love’s perjuries
William Shakespeare, Hubert Parry
On a day -- alack the day! --
Love, whose month is ever May
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen, can passage find;
That the lover, sick to death
Wish himself the heaven's breath
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn;
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were;
And deny himself for Jove
Turning mortal for thy love