(early 17th century)
A mortal disease is love,
Woe unto him who must prove it a month or even a day,
It hath broken my heart, and my bosom is burdened with sighs,
From dreaming of her, gentle sleep hath forsaken mine eyes.
It seems to me long till the tide washes up on the strand;
It seems to me long till the night shall fade into day;
It seems to me long till the cocks crow on every hand;
And rather than the world were I close beside my love.
Where tonight is the snowdrift and frost?
Or even I and my love together breasting the waves of the sea;
Without barque, without boat, without any vessel with me,
But I to be swimming, and my arm to be circling his waist!