I
To the tune of "Non credo gia che piu infelice amante."
The nightingale, as soon as April brih Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, sprih, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus for her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thih now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart ih.
II.
Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish, But Tereus love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike, plains her will was broken, But I, who daily craving, ot have to tent me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thih now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart ih.