That thou’lt returnéd be.
Alas! in vain her tears must flow,
Her palms implore the youth
Who pluckéd thee from out her heart
And set in his such ruth.
I cannot give thee back—I would
I might! I’d send thee thither;
It grieveth me to see her weep,
To know that thou shalt wither.
My heart ne’er tho’t when thee I plucked,