THE winter it is past, and the summer ‘s come at last,
And the small birds sing on ev'ry tree;
The hearts of these are glad, but mine is very sad,
For my Lover has parted from me.
The rose upon the brier, by the waters running clear,
May have charms for the linnet or the bee;
Their little loves are blest and their little hearts at rest,
But my Lover is parted from me
My love in like the sun, in the firmament does run,
For ever constant and true;
But his is like the moon that wanders up and down,
And every month it is new.
All you that are in love and cannot it remove,
I pity the pains you endure:
For experience makes me know that your hearts are full of woe,
A woe that no mortal can cure.