Long was the combat doubtful that love with love did fight, to leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight, to put in practice either, alas, it was a spite, unto the silly damsel! But one must be refused; more mickle was the pain, that nothing could be used to turn them both to gain, for of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain, alas, she could not help it! Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day, which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away, then, lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay, for now my song is ended. On a day, alack the day! love, whose month was ever may, spied a blossom passing fair, playing in the wanton air, through the velvet leaves the wind, all unseen, gan passage find, that the lover, sick to death, wished himself the heaven's breath, air, quote he, thy cheeks may blow, air, would I might triumph so! but, alas! My hand hath sworn, ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn, vow, alack! For youth unmeet, youth, so apt to pluck a sweet. Thou for whom Jove would swear, Juno but an Ethiopia were, and deny himself for Jove, turning mortal for thy love. My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not, my rams speed not, all is amiss, love's denying, faith's defying, heart's relying, causer of this. All my merry jigs are quite forgot, all my lady's love is lost, god wot, where her faith was firmly fixed in love, there a nay is placed without remove. One silly cross, wrought all my loss, o frowning fortune, cursed, fickle dame! For now I see, inconstancy, more in women than in men remain. In black mourn I, all fears scorn I, love hath forlorn me, living in thrall, heart is bleeding, all help needing, o cruel speeding, freighted with gall. My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal, my weather's bell rings doleful knell, my curtail dog, that wont to have played, plays not at all, but seems afraid, my sighs so deep, procure to weep, in howling wise, to see my doleful plight. How sighs resound, through heartless ground, like a thousand vanquished men in bloody fight! clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not, green plants bring not, forth their dye, herds stand weeping, flocks all sleeping, nymphs back peeping, fearfully, all our pleasure known to us poor swains, all our merry meetings on the plains, all our evening sport from us is fled, all our love is lost, for love is dead, farewell, sweet lass, thy like ne'er was, for a sweet content, the cause of all my moan, poor Corydon, must live alone, other help for him I see that there is none.