Mullidor's Madrigal

Dildido, dildido,

O love, O love,

I feel thy rage rumble below and above!

In summer time I saw a face,

Trop belle pour moi, hélas, hélas!

Like to a stoned-horse was her pace:

Was ever young man so dismayed?

Her eyes, like wax-torches, did make me afraid:

Trop belle pour moi, voilà mon trépas.

Thy beauty, my love, exceedeth supposes;

Thy hair is a nettle for the nicest roses.

Mon dieu, aide moi!

That I with the primrose of my fresh wit

May tumble her tyranny under my feet:

Hé donc je serai un jeune roi!

Trop belle pour moi, hélas, hélas!

Trop belle pour moi voilà mon trépas!