On a day, alack the day

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.