THE LOVER:
Why not rise with dawn, my Lady?
Why miss these sweet hours?
Come with me: the ghyll is shady,
Carpeted with flowers;
Why miss these sweet hours?
Now thou liest a-bed, my jewel,
How canst thou still sleep?
To encase thyself is cruel—
Beauty thus to keep.
How canst thou still sleep?
HIS LADY:
At this hour, my simple lover,
I prefer to rest
Than to watch the tireless plover
Rise from dewy nest;
I prefer to rest.
Beauty such as mine, my lover,
(This I know is right)
Even thou wilt soon discover
Is more meet for night
(This I know is right).
THE SONG-MAKER:
In the daytime chirp the thrushes;
But the nightingale
Waits until the moonlit hushes
To pour forth her tale;
Wiser nightingale!