Gentle hope will never stay
In the mansions of despair:
One to death would point the way,
But one is as an angel fair.
Hope might in my spirit start,
Death thy servant bids her nay:
While beneath thy scourge I smart,
Doleful still must be my lay,
Since to set my steps astray,
Thou at once art wheat and tare:
One is like a devil, yea,
But one is as an angel fair.
Love, thou teachest me to say
Double tribute is to pay
For thy servants everywhere:
One is grievous, well-a-day!
But one is as an angel fair.
Much did this ballad charm my cousin, but greatly was he distressed at my grief, and in this manner did I, who never wearied of, or ceased from, weeping, make an end to my discourse. And thereby my distemper was diminished, but my cousin was forthwith anangered when he saw me thus discomforted. And he spake thus to me: "Alack-a-day! Right well do I perceive that you possess little discretion and courage. What reason have you, fair Sir, to demean you thus?
