“W HAT art thou saying, doing, pensive dove,
Upon that withered tree?” “Ah, friend, I moan.”
“Why moanest thou?” “Because my mate is gone,
Dearer than life.” “Why left she this fair grove?”

“A fowler, through the cruel craft he wove,
Limed her and slew, since when I mourn alone
And chide harsh Death that took my cherished one
Yet would not slay me with her, my true love.”

“And art thou fain to die and join thy mate?”
“Do I not languish in this darksome wood
Forever by regret of her pursued?”

“O gentle birdlings, happy is your fate!
Nature herself in love hath nurtured you
To die or live unchanging lovers true.”