To she, whom she knows, but I dare not say:
A dreadful morn hath past the hand strike ten,
This present makes haste; and the night turn day,
For this lovers love, and hers? may bloom again.
Try as I may but cannot win this doves
heart. For the fox hath within his grasp; Takes
her life, But not her love - The one she loves;
and closely guards, is the one heart she breaks.
The vain reckoning of this ill-fated
Raven; Is proclaimed by the heavens above,
Restrained by loves shadows, Cursed by cupid,
Cannot be resolved. True: These tales of love
could have ended in a different way,
But crushed that heart of mine to my dismay.