Go, heart of mine, and hasten to my love;
Tell her I mourn throughout the slow, sad hours.
And that I wander through forsaken bowers
Like some disconsolate and widowed dove,
Who, being once forsaken of her mate,
Doth wander ever after desolate.
Go, heart of mine, and tremble in her breast;
Tell her that I am like the winds that scour
O'er hill and dale, that leafy woods deflower,
And meadows many-hued, yet find no rest.
But, making moan which never doth abate,
Do wander up and down disconsolate.
Go, heart of mine, and whisper in her ear
That I am like a tree no longer green.
Where winter's barrenness may be foreseen
In branch and bough, by autumn's touch made sere;
And like the leaves which rough winds violate.
The days from off my life drop desolate.
And if that move her not, go, kiss each lip,
And tell her that I can no longer live,
Unless she come again to me, and give
Her sweet and ever-constant fellowship.
And from her lips thou shalt not separate
Until she swear to be compassionate.
