The nightingale who hath
A voice of lace
Sings my tale of woe.
O, the nightingale is my battle's bard,
The jester of my courtship,
A dove upon a perch.

My love knows naught of my emotions’ depth,
Naught of my heart's desire,
Not like thou dost, fair nightingale,
(Prithee sing my story justly),
And as he knows naught of I,
I know naught of him.

The fair man whom I love,
He gives not an impression of need,
Nary a hint of desire.
The object of my heart
Hath fertile love for many, however naught for I.
He hath wrought of me a puppet to his affection.

My loveliest love,
My truest truth,
O, unrequited they art.
And as the nightingale is my battle's bard
And the jester of my courtship,
My love is a dove perched upon my heart.