Thou shalt list to his song o’er the loud strings sweeping;
Thou shalt meet him, where flowrets peep from the wold;
By thy smiles shall his going and coming be told,
His mind in thy joyfulness steeping.
But she that loves none shall go weeping!
Lovs’t thou the lordling, who hunts in the grove?
Thou shalt sue to thy mother and fly from her keeping;
Thou shalt give him thy lips and give him thy love;
Thou shalt take, as he flings horse or hound from above,