Songs

So by my singing am I comforted
Even as the swan that singing makes death sweet,
For from my face is gone the wholesome red.
And soft grief in my heart is sunken deep.
For sorrow still increasing,
And travail unreleasing,
And strength from me fast flying,
And I for sorrow dying,
Dying, dying, dying,
Since she I love cares nothing for my sighing.

If she whom I desire would stoop to love me,
I should look down on Jove ;
If for one night my lady would lie by me,
And I kiss the mouth I love,
Then come Death unrelenting,
With quiet breath consenting,
I go forth
unrepenting,
Content, content, content,
That such delight were ever to me lent.