Life is full of frantic music, without much to signify

And our conscience makes cowards of us all

Once watchful care lodges in a man’s eye

Therein sweet sleep, alas, will no longer lie

Forget the fickle moon lest it proves love variable

Take my love and cut it out in little stars when I shall die

Make the face of night so fine the entire world falls in love

And worships no more that garish daystar

Ah, Vous Dirai-je Maman.