| If that blessed bird of heaven Through my door come back again |
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| Come is the festal season, With friends and roses late |
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| So but of fortune backed I be, Hand on the Loved One's skirt I'll lay |
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| When the thought of thy face overpasseth The rosegarden red of the eye |
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| Ill we speak not nor inclining Practise to despite, not we |
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| From hand my heart goeth: help! help! Ye pious! By all that's Divine! |
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| If thou with kindness calls us, Pure grace it on thy part is |
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| There's none who fallen victim Unto thy tress is not |
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| Except the love of moonfaced maids, This heart of mine a way takes not |
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| In her face's time no lover Inclination for the mead hath |
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