IV. The Nightingale—as soon as April bringeth

Sir Philip Sidney (1554–1586)

To the same tune

THE NIGHTINGALE—as soon as April bringeth

Unto her rested sense, a perfect waking;

While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth—

Sings out her woes, a thorn her song book making.

And mournfully bewailing,

Her throat in tunes expresseth

What grief her breast oppresseth

For THEREUS’ force, on her chaste will prevailing.

O PHILOMELA fair! O take some gladness!

That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness.

Thine earth now springs! mine fadeth;

Thy thorn without! my thorn my heart invadeth.

Alas, she hath no other cause of anguish

But THEREUS’ love; on her, by strong hand wroken;

Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish,

Full woman-like, complains her will was broken.

But I—who, daily craving,

Cannot have to content me—

Have more cause to lament me;

Since wanting is more woe than too much having.

O PHILOMELA fair! O take some gladness!

That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness.

Thine earth now springs! mine fadeth:

Thy thorn without! my thorn my heart invadeth.