The Golden Treasury of English Songs and Lyrics/Book 1/Poem 20
For other versions of this work, see On a Day, Alack the Day.
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LOVE’S PERJURIES
On a day, alack the day! Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen ’gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn: Vow, alack, for youth unmeet; Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me That I am forsworn for thee: Thou for whom e’en Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were, And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. W. Shakespeare