Sick my heart, and sorely in danger,
Reft of end or aim I stray,
Afire with a low-burning fever
That doth the doctor e’en dismay.

Ah, by love’s unerring arrow
Has my languid heart been slain,
That heart which thou alone, Lucette,
Canst, and thou wilt, make well again.
That heart which thou alone, Lucette,
Canst, and thou wilt, make well again.

And Father John has preached full often,
He were a heathen knave, indeed,
Who would not give alms to his neighbour,
Seeing that neighbour sore in need.

Ergo: give ear to my petition,
Turn thine eyes upon me here!
For thou alone, ah, my Lucette,
Canst grant the alms that I require.
For thou alone, ah, my Lucette,
Canst grant the alms that I require.

This distress by which I am shaken, 
These pains I now so long endure,
Naught, save sweet kisses to be taken
From thy rosy lips, can cure.

Or, for despite I’ll lose my reason,
Or than Angels happier be;
So choose, and give me, my Lucette,
Heaven or hell as pleaseth thee.
So choose, and give me, my Lucette,
Heaven or hell as pleaseth thee.