Love's Perjuries

Love's Perjuries

On a day, alack the day!
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air;
Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, ígan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wishíd himself the heavenís breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Neíer to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee:
Thou for whom eíen Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiope were,
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.