II

And slow, slow, as the winter snow,

      The tears have drifted to mine eyes;

And my poor cheeks, five months ago,

Set blushing at thy praises so,

      Put paleness on for a disguise.

Ah, sweet, be free to praise and go!

      For if my face is turned to pale,

      It was thine oath that first did fail,—

      It was thy love proved false and frail!

      And why, since these be changed, enow,

            Should I change less than thou?