Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan, Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei: For no fair sign can credit win, If that the substance fail within. No more in thy sweetness glory, For thy knitting hair be sorry; Use thy words but to bewail thee That no more thy beams avail thee; Dan, dan, Dan, dan, Lay not thy colours more to view, Without the picture be found true. Woe to me, alas, she weepeth! Fool! in me what folly creepeth? Was I to blaspheme enraged, Where my soul I have engaged? Dan, dan, Dan, dan, And wretched I must yield to this; The fault I blame her chasteness is. Sweetness! sweetly pardon folly; Tie me, hair, your captive wholly: Words! O words of heavenly knowledge! Know, my words their faults acknowledge; Dan, dan, Dan, dan, And all my life I will confess, The less I love, I live the less. TRANSLATION. _From_ “_La Diana de Monte-Mayor_,” _in Spanish_: _where Sireno_, _a shepherd_, _whose mistress Diana had utterly forsaken him_, _pulling out a little of her hair_, _wrapped about with green silk_, _to the hair he thus bewailed himself_. WHAT changes here, O hair, I see, since I saw you! How ill fits you this green to wear, For hope, the colour due! Indeed, I well did hope, Though hope were mixed with fear, No other shepherd should have scope Once to approach this hair. Ah hair! how many days My Dian made me show, With thousand pretty childish plays, If I ware you or no: Alas, how oft with tears,— O tears of guileful breast!— She seeméd full of jealous fears, Whereat I did but jest. Tell me, O hair of gold, If I then faulty be, That trust those killing eyes I would, Since they did warrant me? Have you not seen her mood, What streams of tears she spent, ’Till that I sware my faith so stood, As her words had it bent? Who hath such beauty seen In one that changeth so? Or where one’s love so constant been, Who ever saw such woe? Ah, hair! are you not grieved To come from whence you be, Seeing how once you saw I lived, To see me as you see? On sandy bank of late, I saw this woman sit; Where, “Sooner die than change my state,” She with her finger writ: Thus my belief was staid, Behold Love’s mighty hand On things were by a woman said, And written in the sand. _The same Sireno in_ “_Monte-Mayor_,” _holding his mistress’s glass before her_, _and looking upon her while she viewed herself_, _thus sang_:— Of this high grace, with bliss conjoined, No farther debt on me is laid, Since that in self-same metal coined, Sweet lady, you remain well paid;