William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Elizabethan Verse. 1907.
DiscreetAnonymous
‘O
The fairest of thy mother’s kin?
O come, come, come abroad
And hear the shrill birds sing,
The air with tunes that load.
It is too soon to go to rest,
The sun not midway yet to west,
The day doth miss thee
And will not part until it kiss thee.’
Yet to an unknown seld-seen friend
I dare not ope the door:
To hear the sweet birds sing
Oft proves a dangerous thing.
The sun may run his wonted race
And yet not gaze on my poor face;
The day may miss me:
Therefore depart, you shall not kiss me.’