And hard, very hard, is my fare,
But that which grieves me more
Is the coldness of my dear.
Oh, turn, love, I prythee, love,
turn to me,
For thou art the only one, love,
that art ador’d by me.
I’ll twine thee a garland of straw, love,
I’ll marry thee with a rush ring,
My frozen hopes will thaw, love,