POEM: SONG
II.
To the tune of "Non credo gia che piu infelice amante."
Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish, But Tereus love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike, complains her will was broken, But I, who daily craving, Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, http://www•99lib•netmine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
The nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of newwww.99lib.net clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus force on her ch九_九_藏_书_网aste will prevailing. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
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