IV.3

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, can passage find;
That the lover, sick to death, 
Wish himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow; 
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn; 
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, 
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!
This will I send, and something else more plain, 
That shall express my true love's fasting pain. 
O, would the king, Biron, and Longaville,
Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill,
Would from my forehead wipe a perjured note; 
For none offend where all alike do dote.