What, again, Pierrot, to her lattice stealing,
As the day dawns full of sighs?
Do you hope, Pierrot, that your plaintive songs appealing
To that casement dark will rise?
Pierrot, Pierrot here on her pity calling
Have I sung the whole night long,
Nor e'er, nor e'er, soft from her lattice falling
Came a rose to greet the song.
Away, Pierrot! away, she will but flout you.
To so sad a lover she may well say nay.
Away Pierrot! let me sing on without you,
Tho' she send no token yet her eyes have spoken
And I love her! So—Pierrot away!
In your lute, Pierrot, are there ever songs of sorrow,
And no songs of love like mine?
You will sing your heart out long before the morrow,
Like the nightingale to pine.
Pierrot, Pierrot, the dew is heavy lying,
And the day will bring the rain,
But ne'er, but ne'er will she, to you replying.
Fling her lattice back again.
—Thomas Wharton