John Wilbye: Poems about Morning

As fair as morn, as fresh as May,
a pretty grace in saying nay,
Smil'st thou sweetheart?
then sing and say, Ta na na no,
But O! that love enchanting eye,
Lo, here my doubtful doom I try,
Tell me my sweet, live I or die?
She smiles, fa la la la,
Ah, she frowns, Ay me, I die.