Prudent and very fair the maiden,
    Than rose or lily more love-laden;
    Stately of stature, lithe and slender,
    There’s naught so exquisite and tender. 
        The Queen of France is not so dear;
        Death to my life comes very near
        If Flower-o’-the-thorn be not my cheer.

    The Queen of Love my heart is killing
    With her gold arrow pain-distilling;
    The God of Love with torches burning
    Lights pyre on pyre of ardent yearning. 
        She is the girl for whom I’d die;
        I want none dearer, far or nigh,
        Though grief on grief upon me lie.

    I with her love am thralled and taken,
    Whose flower doth flower, bud, bloom, and waken;
    Sweet were the labour, light the burden,
    Could mouth kiss mouth for wage and guerdon. 
        No touch of lips my wound can still,
        Unless two hearts grow one, one will,
        One longing!  Flower of flowers, farewell!

Once at least we find him writing in absence to his mistress, and imploring her fidelity.  This ranks among the most delicate in sentiment of the whole series.

THE LOVE-LETTER IN SPRING.

No. 17.

    Now the sun is streaming,
      Clear and pure his ray;
    April’s glad face beaming
      On our earth to-day. 
    Unto love returneth
      Every gentle mind;
    And the boy-god burneth
      Jocund hearts to bind.

    All this budding beauty,
      Festival array,
    Lays on us the duty
      To be blithe and gay. 
    Trodden ways are known, love! 
      And in this thy youth,
    To retain thy own love
      Were but faith and truth.

    In faith love me solely,
      Mark the faith of me,
    From thy whole heart wholly,
      From the soul of thee. 
    At this time of bliss, dear,
      I am far away;
    Those who love like this, dear,
      Suffer every day!

At one time he seems upon the point of clasping his felicity.

A SPRING DITTY.

No. 18.

    In the spring, ah happy day! 
    Underneath a leafy spray
    With her sister stands my may. 
          O sweet love! 
          He who now is reft of thee
          Poor is he!

    Ah, the trees, how fair they flower
    Birds are singing in the bower;
    Maidens feel of love the power. 
          O sweet love!

    See the lilies, how they blow! 
    And the maidens row by row
    Praise the best of gods below. 
          O sweet love!

    If I held my sweetheart now,
    In the wood beneath the bough,
    I would kiss her, lip and brow. 
          O sweet love! 
          He who now is reft of thee,
          Poor is he!