The love-lorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well.
O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death.
Time is the subtle thief of youth.
And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
But infinite in pardon is my Judge.
Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?