LOVE IN DISGUISE
I mourned beneath the willow tree,
When shrouded came a nymph to me
And slid her hand in mine.
Her boldness I did much upbraid,
And said: “Begone, thou wanton maid;
I seek no love of thine!
“Nor do I hope to wake again
My heart all stricken with disdain.
And drive it forth to woo.
No! no! Forlorn I sit and sigh,
And call on Death to let me die.
Since Phyllis is untrue.”
“Ah!” cried the maid, “why therefore chide,
Since I indeed am fitting bride
For one so pale and wan?”
She held me in a close embrace,
Nor could I see her hidden face,
And still I cried: “Begone!”
“If thou art Love, thy labour's vain;
I hold thy boldness in disdain,
I care no more to woo.
But be thou Death, for whom I cry.
Thy lover then indeed am I,
Since Phyllis is untrue.”
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