Go talk to her, sweet flower,
To whom I fain would talk
Tell her I hour by hour
Pine on my own poor stalk.

Tell her that I should live
Not quite so sore distressed,
If she to you would give
A throne upon her breast.

Tell her that should she hie
To my parched plot to see
If I be dead, that I
No more should withered be.

If I were dead, her feet
My spirit would revive,
As may her bosom sweet
Keep you, sweet flower, alive.