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When Daphne from fair Phoebus did fly,
the West wind most sweetly did blow in her face.
Her silken scarf scarce sheltered her eyes.
The god cried, O pity! and held her in chase.

Stay, nymph, stay, nymph, cried Apollo,
tarry, and turn thee, sweet nymph, stay,
lion or tiger, doth thee follow
turn thy fair eyes and look this way.
O turn, O pretty sweet
and let our red lips meet:
Pity, O Daphne, pity, pity,
pity, O Daphne, pity me.

She gave no ear unto his cry,
but still did neglect him the more he did moan;
though he did entreat, she still did deny,
and earnestly prayed him to leave her alone.
Never, never, cried Apollo,
unless to love thou wilt consent,
and still, with my voice so hollow,
I'll cry to thee while life be spent.
But prove if thou turn to me,
for certes, thy felicity.
Pity, O Daphne, pity, pity,
pity, O Daphne, pity me.

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