But love is past belief, O.
'Nights, nights I've lain your lands to see,
Forlorn and still—and all for me,
All for a foolish curse, O;
Now here am I
Come out to die,
To live unlov'd is worse, O!'
In faith, this lord, in that lone dale,
Hears now a sweeter nightingale,
And lairs a tend'rer deer, O;