Knew my sorrow, brought me love:
My sweet turtle dove, I know,
If her other half should go,
Would not mate with any other,
Or fly from one tree to another.
This is a more passionate vein, with some adumbrations of a story in it:—
“Hide, O God, the moon in a mist,
Let me revel as I list;
Wrap like a shroud his face in a cloud,
Till my lover has kissed and kissed.”—