Stay, heart, run not so fast from him that loves thee,
To her that deadly hates thee.
Her sharp disdain reproves thee,
And worse than ill still rates thee.
Then let her go and spare not;
Hold thou thyself contented and I care not.
Up, gentle swains, we'll have a round this morrow;
My love is gone and with her, 'go, my sorrow'.
O vile wretch, thou lovedst her once and why
now dost thou vary?
Then straight away I haste me,
And after her will run while life shall last me;
Ah, death his force now trieth,
Flora farewell, for lo, thy shepherd dieth.