"Do not the sun and moon with grace
E'er granted me,
I thy meaning have descried!Lovingly thou seem'st to say
They tear themselves asunder at last,
To rubbish and ruins are turn'd.
She crush'd the violet sweet.It sank and died, yet murmur'd not:"And if I die, oh, happy lot,For her I die,
To the grave one day from a house they bore
Grow the steps and grows the hail.Lord and master hear me call!
And her painted cheeks he kisses,
She gives him a golden chain to wear,And a silver chalice would the youth
The flower can not be found.Whoe'er would bring it to my sight,Whether a vassal he, or knight,