1567 - 1620
1 Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet;
2 Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet.
3 There, wrapp'd in cloud of sorrow, pity move,
4 And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love:
5 But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,
6 Then burst with sighing in her sight and ne'er return again.
7 All that I sung still to her praise did tend,
8 Still she was first; still she my songs did end;
9 Yet she my love and music both doth fly,
10 The music that her echo is and beauty's sympathy.
11 Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight:
12 It shall suffice that they were breath'd and died for her delight.
Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air;
Thrice sit thou mute in this enchantment chair:
Then trice three times tie up this true love’s knot,
And murmur soft she will, or she will not.
Go burn these pois’nous weeds in your blue fire,
These screech-owl’s feathers, and this prickling briar,
This cypress gathered at a dead man’s grave;
That all thy fears and cares an end may have.
Then come you, you Fairies, dance with me a round,
Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound.
In vain are all the charms I can devise:
She hath an art to break them with her eyes.
© 2000 Elena and Yacov Feldman