One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washèd it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.
Fresh spring the herald of love's mighty king.
All for love, and nothing for reward.
Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
The nightingale is sovereign of song.
Ah, fool! faint heart fair lady ne'er could win.