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

O turn, O pretty sweet
and let our red lips meet:
Pity, O Daphne, pity, pity,
pity, O Daphne, pity me.