1. The Gods have heard my vows, fond Lyce whose fair brows won't scorn with such disdain, my love, my tears, my pain. Fa la la la la la fa la la. 2. But now those springtime roses are turn'd to winter poses, to rue and thyme and sage fitting that shrivell'd age. Fa la la la la la fa la la. 3. Now youths with hot desire see that flameless fire which erst your hearts so burn'd quick into ashes turn'd. Fa la la la la la fa la la.
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