Flower of the May!
What shall I do to make her forget me?
She is so sad that should be so gay.

Ah, jessamine flower!
I toucht her hand and it set me on fire:
What would her lips do for power?

O scarlet sorrel—
She that I love hath so pretty a rage
I love her wildest when she and I quarrel.

Honey of lime!
Loving is easy; but how to end loving!
Ah, that is harder than rhyme!

Wild purple heather,
You who have lain in her bosom this morn
Lie now in mine, and link us together.