On a day, alacke the day :
Loue, whofe Month is euer May :
Spied a bloffome pasfing faire,
Playing in the wanton aire:
Through the Veluet, leaues the wind,
All vnfeene, can paffage finde:
That the Louer ficke to death,
Wifh himselfe the heauens breath.
Ayre (quoth he) thy cheekes may blow,
Ayre would I might triumph fo.
But alacke my hand is fworne,
Nere to plucke thee from thy throne:
Vow alacke for youth vnmeete,
Youth fo apt to pluck a fweete,
((Do not call it finne in me,
That I am forfworne for thee :))
Thou for whom Ioue would fweare,
Iuno but an AEthiop were,
And denie himfelfe for Joue,
Turning mortall for thy loue.