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Sweet love, sweet thorn,
when lightly to my heart I took your thrust,
whereby I since am slain,
And lie disheveled in the grass apart, A sodden thing bedrenched by tears and rain, While rainy evening drips to misty night, And misty night to cloudly morning clears, And birds grow noisy, and the sun appears-
Had I bethought me then, sweet love, sweet thorn, How sharp an anguish even at the best, When all's requited and the future sworn, The happy hour can leave within the breast, I had not so come running at the call Of one who loves me little, if at all.
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