Alas! poor mortal maid! unfit to hold
High converse with the glorious gods above,
Each morn that breaks still finds me unconsoled,
Each hour still hears me sighing for my love.

Wert thou a precious stone, I'd clasp thee tight
Around mine arm; wert thou a silken dress,
I'd ne'er discard thee either day or night; —
Last night, sweet love! I dreamt I saw thy face.