la la la la la la la la la la
on a day- alack the day- love, whose month is ever may, spied a blossom passing fair
playing in the wanton air, throught the velvet leaves the wind, all passage find
that the lover, sick to death, wish himself the heaven's breath
Air? quoth he, Thy cheeks may blow! Air! would i might triumph so!
but alack my hand is sworn ne'er to pluck thee from thorn: vow, alack for youth unmeet
youth so apt to pluck a sweet! do not call it sin in me
fa la la it sin
that i am forsworn for thee
fa la la forsworn
thou for whom jove would swear juno but an ethiope were.
fa la la that's kinda racist
and deny himself for jove
turning mortal for thy lo-o-ve!