Thou wishest me now to stir my pen
And write thee songs of sweet melody,
Can thou pluck apples from a barren
Tree, can a hollow comb drip honey?
For my Muse would not strike a note
Nor whisper amorous words to mine ear,
She leaves my soul in constant draught
I yearn for comfort but nought is near.
Come back to me my fair maiden Muse,
For summer is cold without thine presence,
I’ve bore much burden but I refuse
To endure torment of thine absence.
- by H. Narcissus