Are but the few that true remain
Of budding May’s rejoicing train.
Like autumn flowers that brave the frost,
And make their show when hope is lost,
These ’mong the fruits and mellow scent
Mourn not the high-sunned summer spent.
Their notes thro’ all the jocund spring
Were mixed in merry musicking:
They sang for love the whole day long,
But now their love is all for song.