She held a little cithern by the strings,
    Shaped heartwise, strung with subtle-coloured hair
    Of some dead lute-player
That in dead years had done delicious things.
The seven strings were named accordingly;
    The first string charity,
        The second tenderness,
The rest were pleasure, sorrow, sleep, and sin,
And loving-kindness, that is pity’s kin
        And is most pitiless.

There were three men with her, each garmented
    With gold and shod with gold upon the feet;
    And with plucked ears of wheat
The first man’s hair was wound upon his head.
His face was red, and his mouth curled and sad;
    All his gold garment had
        Pale stains of dust and rust.
A riven hood was pulled across his eyes;
The token of him being upon this wise
        Made for a sign of Lust.

The next was Shame, with hollow heavy face
    Coloured like green wood when flame kindles it.
    He hath such feeble feet
They may not well endure in any place.
His face was full of grey old miseries,
    And all his blood’s increase
        Was even increase of pain.
The last was Fear, that is akin to Death;
He is Shame’s friend, and always as Shame saith
        Fear answers him again.

My soul said in me; This is marvellous,
    Seeing the air’s face is not so delicate
    Nor the sun’s grace so great,
If sin and she be kin or amorous.
And seeing where maidens served her on their knees,
    I bade one crave of these
        To know the cause thereof.
Then Fear said: I am Pity that was dead.
And Shame said: I am Sorrow comforted.
        And Lust said: I am Love.

Thereat her hands began a lute-playing
    And her sweet mouth a song in a strange tongue;
    And all the while she sung
There was no sound but long tears following
Long tears upon men’s faces waxen white
    With extreme sad delight.
        But those three following men
Became as men raised up among the dead;
Great glad mouths open and fair cheeks made red
        With child’s blood come again.

Then I said: Now assuredly I see
    My lady is perfect, and transfigureth
    All sin and sorrow and death,
Making them fair as her own eyelids be,
Or lips wherein my whole soul’s life abides;
    Or as her sweet white sides
        And bosom carved to kiss.
Now therefore, if her pity further me,
Doubtless for her sake all my days shall be
        As righteous as she is.

Forth, ballad, and take roses in both arms,
    Even till the top rose touch thee in the throat
Where the least thornprick harms;
    And girdled in thy golden singing-coat,
Come thou before my lady and say this;
    Borgia, thy gold hair’s colour burns in me,
        Thy mouth makes beat my blood in feverish rhymes;
    Therefore so many as these roses be,
        Kiss me so many times.
Then it may be, seeing how sweet she is,
    That she will stoop herself none otherwise
        Than a blown vine-branch doth,
    And kiss thee with soft laughter on thine eyes,
        Ballad, and on thy mouth.