2-54 
LAY OP THE. BOSE. 
“ E’en nightingales shall flee 
Their woods for love of me. 
Singing sadly all the suntide, 
Never waiting for the moontide ! 
“ Three larks shall leave a cloud 
To. my whiter beauty vow’d, 
Singing gladly all the moontide 
Never waiting for the suntide 
So praying did she win 
South winds to let her in, 
In her loneness, in her loneness, 
And the fairer for that oneness. 
But out, alas, for her ! 
No thing did minister 
To her praises, to her praises, 
More than might unto a daisy’s. 
No tree nor bush was seen 
To boast a perfect green, 
Scarcely having, scarcely having 
One leaf broad enow for waving. 
