Inesilla! I am here

Thy own cavalier

Is now beneath thy lattice playing:

Why art thou delaying?

He hath riden many a mile

But to see thy smile:

The young light on the flowers is shining,

Yet he is repining.

What to him is a summer star,

If his love’s afar?

What to him the flowers perfuming,

When his heart’s consuming?

Sweetest girl! I why dost thou hide?

Beauty may abide

Even before the eye of morning,

And want no adorning.

Now, upon their paths of lights,

Starry spirits bright

To catch thy brighter glance are staying:

Why art thou delaying?