The moon, and the stars are none so shy as thou;
Cold is thy heart, O Love, for thou heedest not my cry!
Sadly I want for a sight of thee, 
Beneath thy lattice, lone and drear.
Pity is a stranger to thy breast;
Love kindles anger there;
Despair, a smile: 
Cold is thy heart, O love, for thou heedest my cry.
Ah!