The Project Gutenberg eBook of Old Songs

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Title: Old Songs

Illustrator: Edwin Austin Abbey

Contributor: Edmund Spenser

George Wither

Illustrator: Alfred Parsons

Release date: January 15, 2022 [eBook #67167]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Harper & Brothers, 1889

Credits: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images available at The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLD SONGS ***
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OLD SONGS

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OLD SONGS

WITH DRAWINGS BY
EDWIN A · ABBEY
& ALFRED PARSONS

NEW YORK · HARPER & BROTHERS · PRINTERS &
PUBLISHERS · FRANKLIN SQUARE · M DCCC LXXXIX

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COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY

HARPER & BROTHERS.

All Rights Reserved.
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CONTENTS

  PAGE
A Love Song1
“Why canst Thou not, as Others do”15
“With Jockey to the Fair”19
“Sweet Nelly, my Heart’s Delight”27
“What hap had I to Marry a Shrow”33
The Leather Bottèl37
Never Love Thee More49
“Here’s to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen”53
Barbara Allen57
Perigot and Cuddy’s Roundelay67 {vi}
Sally in Our Alley73
“Early One Morning”85
Kitty of Coleraine89
Old King Cole97
Harvest Home101
Down in Cupid’s Garden107
Phillada Flouts Me111

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A LOVE SONG

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A LOVE SONG.

BY GEORGE WITHER.

I lov’d a lasse, a faire one,
 As faire as e’er was seene;
 She was, indeed, a rare one,
 Another Sheba queen;{4}
But, foole, as then I was,
 I thought she lov’d me too;
 But, now, alasse! sh’as left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.
Her haire, like gold, did glister;
 Each eye was like a starre;
 She did surpasse her sister,
 Which past all others farre:
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She would me hony call:
 She’d, oh, she’d kisse me too!
 But, now, alasse! sh’as left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.

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In summer-time, to Medley
 My love and I would goe—
 The boatmen there stood readie
 My love and I to rowe;
 For creame there would we call,
 For cakes, and for prunes too;
 But, now, alasse! sh’as left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.
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Many a merry meeting
 My love and I have had:
 She was my onely sweeting;
 She made my heart full glad:{7}
 The teares stood in her eyes,
 Like to the morning-dew;
 But, now, alasse! sh’as left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.
And as abroad we walked,
 As lovers’ fashion is,
 Oft, as we sweetly talked,
 The sun would steale a kisse;
 The winde upon her lips
 Likewise most sweetly blew;
 But, now, alasse! sh’as left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.
Her cheekes were like the cherrie,
 Her skin as white as snow;
 When she was blyth and merrie,
 She angel-like did show;
 Her wast exceeding small,
 The fives did fit her shoo;
 But, now, alasse! sh’as left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.
In summer-time or winter
 She had her heart’s desire;
 I stil did scorne to stint her
 From sugar, sacke, or fire:
 The world went round about;
 No cares we ever knew;
 But, now, alasse! sh’as left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.
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As we walked home together,
 At midnight, through the towne,
 To keepe away the weather,
 O’re her I’d cast my gowne;
 No colde my love should feele,
 Whate’er the heavens could doe;
 But, now, alasse! sh’as left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.
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Like doves we would be billing,
 And clip and kisse so fast,
 Yet she would be unwilling
 That I should kisse the last:
 They’re Judas kisses now,
 Since that they prov’d untrue;
 For, now, alasse! sh’as left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.
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To maidens’ vowes and swearing
 Henceforth no credit give;
 You may give them the hearing,
 But never them beleeve:
 They are as false as faire,
 Unconstant, fraile, untrue;
 For mine, alasse! hath left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.
’Twas I that paid for all things,
 ’Twas others dranke the wine;
 I cannot now recall things,
 Live but a foole to pine:
 ’Twas I that beat the bush,
 The bird to others flew;
 For she, alasse! hath left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.
If ever that Dame Nature,
 For this false lover’s sake,
 Another pleasing creature
 Like unto her would make,
 Let her remember this,
 To make the other true;
 For this, alasse! hath left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.
No riches, now, can raise me,
 No want make me despaire,
 No miserie amaze me,
 Nor yet for want I care:
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I have lost a world it selfe.
 My earthly heaven, adue!
 Since she, alasse! hath left me,
 Falero, lero, loo.
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“WHY CANST THOU NOT, AS OTHERS DO?”

WHY canst thou not, as others do,
 Look on me with unwounding eyes?
 And yet look sweet, but yet not so,
 Smile, but not in killing wise;
 Arm not thy graces to confound;
 Only look, but do not wound.
Why should mine eyes see more in you
 Than they can see in all the rest?
 For I can others’ beauties view,
 And not find my heart opprest.
 O be as others are to me,
 Or let me be more to thee.
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“WITH JOCKEY TO THE FAIR.”

’TWAS on the morn of sweet May-day,
 When nature painted all things gay—
 Taught birds to sing and lambs to play
 And deck’d the meadows fair—
 Young Jockey early in the morn
 Arose and tripped it o’er the lawn.
 His Sunday coat the youth put on;
 For Jenny had vowed away to run
 With Jockey to the fair.
The cheerful parish bells had rung.
 With eager steps he trudg’d along;
 Sweet flowing garlands round him hung,
 Which shepherds us’d to wear.
 He tapp’d the window. “Hush, my dear!”
 Jenny, impatient, cried, “Who’s there?”
 “’Tis I, my love, and no one near.
 Step gently down, you’ve naught to fear
 With Jockey to the fair.”
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“My dad and mammy ’re fast asleep.
 My brother up and with the sheep.
 And will you still your promise keep,
 Which I have heard you swear?
 And will you ever constant prove?”
 “I will, by all the pow’rs above!
 And ne’er deceive my charming dove.
 Dispel those doubts, and haste, my love,
 With Jockey to the fair.”
“Behold the ring!” the shepherd cried.
 “Will Jenny be my charming bride?
 Let Cupid be our happy guide,
 And Hymen meet us there.”
 Then Jockey did his vows renew—
 He would be constant, would be true.
 His word was pledged, away she flew,
 With cowslips sparkling with the dew,
 With Jockey to the fair.
Soon did they meet a joyful throng.
 Their gay companions, blithe and young,
 Each joins the dance, each joins the song
 To hail the happy pair.
 What two were e’er so fond as they?
 All bless the kind propitious day—
 The smiling morn, the blooming May,
 When lovely Jenny ran away
 With Jockey to the fair.
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“SWEET NELLY, MY HEART’S DELIGHT.”

He. SWEET Nelly, my heart’s delight,
 Be loving, and do not slight
 The proffer I make
 For modesty’s sake.
 I honor your beauty bright;
 For love I profess,
 I can do no less.
 Thou hast my favor won.
 And since I see
 Your modesty,
 I pray you agree,
 And fancy me,
 Though I’m but a farmer’s son.{30}
She. No; I am a lady gay;
 It is very well known I may
 Have men of renown
 In country or town.
 So, Roger, without delay
 Court Bridget, or Sue,
 Kate, Nancy, or Prue;
 Their loves will soon be won;
 But don’t you dare
 To speak me fair,
 As if I were
 At my last pray’r
 To marry a farmer’s son.
He. My father has riches in store,
 Two hundred a year and more,
 Besides sheep and cows,
 Carts, harrows, and ploughs
 His age is above threescore,
 And when he does die,
 Then merrily I
 Shall have what he has won.
 Both land and kine,
 All shall be thine,
 If thou’lt incline,
 And will be mine,
 And marry a farmer’s son.
She. A fig for your cattle and corn!
 Your proffered love I scorn.
 ’Tis known very well
 My name it is Nell,
 And you’re but a bumpkin born.
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He. Well, since it is so,
 Away I will go,
 And I hope no harm is done.
 Farewell! adieu!
 I hope to woo
 As good as you,
 And win her too,
 Though I’m but a farmer’s son.
She. Be not in such haste, quoth she;
 Perhaps we may still agree,{32}
 For, man, I protest
 I was but in jest;
 Come, prithee, sit down by me.
 For thou art the man
 That verily can
 Win me if e’er I’m won.
 Both straight and tall,
 Genteel withal,
 Therefore I shall
 Be at your call
 To marry a farmer’s son.
He. Dear Nelly, believe me now,
 I solemnly swear and vow
 No lords in their lives
 Take pleasure in wives
 Like we that do drive the plough.
 Whatever we gain
 With labor or pain,
 We don’t after wantons run,
 As courtiers do.
 And I never knew
 A London beau
 That could outdo
 A country farmer’s son.
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“WHAT HAP HAD I TO MARRY A SHROW!”

WHAT hap had I to marry a shrow!
 For she hath given me many a blow,
 And how to please her, alack! I do not know.
From morn to even her tongue ne’er lies;
 Sometimes she brawls, sometimes she cries;
 Yet I can scarce keep her talents from mine eyes.
If I go abroad and late come in,
 “Sir Knave,” saith she, “where have you been?”
 And do I well or ill, she claps me on the skin.
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THE LEATHER BOTTÈL.

’TWAS God above that made all things,
 The heav’ns, the earth, and all therein,
 The ships that on the sea do swim
 To guard from foes that none come in;
 And let them all do what they can,
 ’Twas for one end—the use of man.
 So I wish in heav’n his soul may dwell
 That first found out the leather bottèl.
Now, what do you say to these cans of wood?
 Oh no, in faith they cannot be good;
 For if the bearer fall by the way,
 Why, on the ground your liquor doth lay;
 But had it been in a leather bottèl,
 Although he had fallen all had been well.
 So I wish in heav’n, etc.
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Then what do you say to these glasses fine?
 Oh, they shall have no praise of mine,
 For if you chance to touch the brim,
 Down falls the liquor and all therein;
 But had it been in a leather bottèl,
 And the stoppel in, all had been well.
 So I wish in heav’n, etc.
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Then what do you say to these black pots three?
 If a man and his wife should not agree,
 Why, they’ll tug and pull till their liquor doth spill;
 In a leather bottèl they may tug their fill,
 And pull away till their hearts do ake,
 And yet their liquor no harm can take.
 So I wish in heav’n, etc.
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Then what do you say to these flagons fine?
 Oh, they shall have no praise of mine,
 For when a Lord is about to dine,
 And sends them to be filled with wine,
 The man with the flagon doth run away,
 Because it is silver most gallant and gay.
 So I wish in heav’n, etc.
A leather bottèl we know is good,
 Far better than glasses or cans of wood,
 For when a man’s at work in the field,
 Your glasses and pots no comfort will yield;
 But a good leather bottle standing by
 Will raise his spirits whenever he’s dry.
 So I wish in heav’n, etc.
At noon, the haymakers sit them down,
 To drink from their bottles of ale nut-brown;
 In summer, too, when the weather is warm,
 A good bottle full will do them no harm.
 Then the lads and the lasses begin to tottle,
 But what would they do without this bottle?
 So I wish in heav’n, etc.
There’s never a Lord, an Earl, or Knight,
 But in this bottle doth take delight;
 For when he’s hunting of the deer,
 He oft doth wish for a bottle of beer.
 Likewise the man that works in the wood,
 A bottle of beer will oft do him good.
 So I wish in heav’n, etc.
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And when the bottle at last grows old,
 And will good liquor no longer hold,
 Out of the side you may take a clout,
 To mend your shoes when they’re worn out;
 Or take and hang it up on a pin,
 ’Twill serve to put hinges and odd things in.
 So I wish in heav’n, etc.
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NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.

MY dear and only love, take heed
 How thou thyself expose
 By letting longing lovers feed
 Upon such looks as those.
 I’ll marble-wall thee round about,
 And build without a door;
 But if thy heart do once break out,
 I’ll never love thee more.
Let not their oaths, by volleys shot,
 Make any breach at all,
 Nor smoothness of their language plot
 A way to scale the wall;
 No balls of wildfire love consume
 The shrine which I adore;
 For if such smoke about it fume,
 I’ll never love thee more.
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Then if by fraud or by consent
 To ruin thou shouldst come,
 I’ll sound no trouble as of wont,
 Nor march by beat of drum,
 But fold my arms, like ensigns, up,
 Thy falsehood to deplore,
 And after such a bitter cup
 I’ll never love thee more.
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“HERE’S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL FIFTEEN.”

HERE’S to the maiden of bashful fifteen,
 Now to the widow of fifty;
 Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean,
 And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty.
 Let the toast pass,
 Drink to the lass;
 I warrant she’ll prove
 An excuse for the glass.
Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
 Now to the damsel with none, sir;
 Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
 And now to the nymph with but one, sir.
 Let the toast, etc.
Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow,
 Now to her that’s as brown as a berry;
 Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe,
 And now to the damsel that’s merry.
 Let the toast, etc.
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For let her be clumsy or let her be slim,
 Young or ancient, I care not a feather;
 So fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim,
 And let us e’en toast ’em together.
 Let the toast, etc.
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BARBARA ALLEN.

ALL in the merry Month of May,
 when green leaves they was springing,
 This young man on his Death-bed lay,
 for the love of Barbara Allen.
He sent his man unto her then,
 in the Town where she was dwelling:
 You must come to my Master dear,
 if your name be Barbara Allen.
For Death is printed in his face,
 and Sorrow’s in him dwelling,
 And you must come to my Master dear,
 if your name is Barbara Allen.{60}
If Death be printed on his face,
 and Sorrow’s in him dwelling,
 Then little better shall he be
 for Bonny Barbara Allen.
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So slowly, slowly she got up,
 and so slowly she came to him,
 And all she said when she came there,
 young Man, I think you are a dying.{62}
He turn’d his face unto her then:
 if you be Barbara Allen,
 My dear, said he, come pitty me,
 as on my Death-bed I am lying.
If on your Death-bed you be lying,
 what is that to Barbara Allen?
 I cannot keep you from Death,
 so farewell, said Barbara Allen.
He turn’d his face unto the Wall,
 and Death came creeping to him:
 Then adieu, adieu, and adieu to all,
 and adieu to Barbara Allen.
And as she was walking on a day,
 she heard the Bell a Ringing,
 And it did seem to ring to her,
 unworthy Barbara Allen.
She turn’d herself round about,
 and she spy’d the Corps a coming:
 Lay down, Lay down the Corps of Clay,
 that I may look upon him.
And all the while she looked on,
 so loudly she was laughing;
 While all her Friends cry’d amain,
 unworthy Barbara Allen.
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When he was dead & laid in Grave,
 then Death came creeping to she.
 O Mother! Mother! make my Bed,
 for his Death hath quite undone me.
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A hard hearted Creature that I was,
 to slight one that loved me so dearly;
 I wish I had been more kinder to him,
 the time of his Life, when he was near me.
So this Maid she then did dye,
 and desired to be buried by him,
 And repented herself before she dy’d
 that ever she did deny him.
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PERIGOT AND CUDDY’S ROUNDELAY.

BY EDM. SPENSER.

IT fell upon a holy-eve
 (Heigho, holy-day!),
 When holy fathers wont to shrive
 (Now ’ginneth this roundelay),
 Sitting upon a hill so high
 (Heigho, the high hill!)
 The while my flock did feed thereby,
 The while the shepherd’s self did spill.
I saw the bouncing Bellibone
 (Heigho, bonny-bell!)
 Tripping over the dale alone—
 She can trip it very well—
 Well decked in a frock of gray
 (Heigho, gray is great!)
 And in a kirtle of green say—
 The green is for maidens meet.
A chaplet on her head she wore
 (Heigho, the chaplet!);
 Of sweet violets therein was store—
 She’s sweeter than the violet.
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My sheep did leave their wonted food
 (Heigho, silly sheep!)
 And gazed on her as they were wood—
 Wood as he that did them keep.
As the bonny lass passed by
 (Heigho, bonny lass!)
 She rolled at me with glancing eye
 As clear as the crystal glass.
 All as the sunny beam so bright
 (Heigho, the sunbeam!)
 Glanceth from Phœbus’ face forth-right,
 So love into my heart did stream.
Or as the thunder cleaves the clouds
 (Heigho, the thunder!)
 Wherein the lightsome leaven shrouds,
 So cleaves my soul asunder;
 Or as dame Cynthia’s silver ray
 (Heigho, the moonlight!)
 Upon the glistening wave doth play,
 Such play is a piteous plight.
The glance into my heart did glide
 (Heigho, the glide!),
 Therewith my soul was sharply gride.
 Such wounds some waxen wide;
 Hasting to wrench the arrow out
 (Heigho, Perigot!),
 I left the head in my heart-root:
 It was a desperate shot.{72}
Then it rankleth aye more and more
 (Heigho, the arrow!),
 Nor can I find salve for my sore—
 Love is a cureless sorrow.
 And though my bale with death I bought
 (Heigho, heavy cheer!)
 Yet should this lass not from my thought,
 So you may buy gold too dear.
But whether in painful love I pine
 (Heigho, pinching pain!)
 Or thrive in wealth, she shall be mine.
 But if thou can her obtain,
 And if for graceless grief I die
 (Heigho, graceless grief!),
 Witness she slew me with her eye,
 Let thy folly be the preef (sic).
And you that saw it, simple sheep
 (Heigho, the fair flock!),
 For prief thereof my death shall weep
 And moan with many a mock.
 So learn’d I love on a holy-eve
 (Heigho, holy-day!)
 That ever since my heart did grieve.
 Now endeth our roundelay.
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SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

OF all the girls that are so smart
 There’s none like pretty Sally:
 She is the darling of my heart,
 And she lives in our alley.
 There is no lady in the land
 Is half so sweet as Sally:
 She is the darling of my heart,
 And she lives in our alley.
Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
 And through the streets does cry ’em;
 Her mother she sells laces long
 To such as please to buy ’em;
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But sure such folks could ne’er beget
 So sweet a girl as Sally!
 She is the darling of my heart,
 And she lives in our alley.
When she is by, I leave my work,
 I love her so sincerely;
 My master comes like any Turk,
 And bangs me most severely;{77}
But let him bang his bellyful,
 I’ll bear it all for Sally:
 She is the darling of my heart,
 And she lives in our alley.
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Of all the days that’s in the week
 I dearly love but one day,
 And that’s the day that comes betwixt
 A Saturday and Monday;
 For then I’m drest all in my best
 To walk abroad with Sally:
 She is the darling of my heart,
 And she lives in our alley.
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My master carries me to church,
 And often am I blamed
 Because I leave him in the lurch
 As soon as text is named;
 I leave the church in sermon-time
 And slink away to Sally:
 She is the darling of my heart,
 And she lives in our alley.
When Christmas comes about again,
 Oh, then I shall have money;
 I’ll hoard it up, and box it all,
 I’ll give it to my honey:
 I would it were ten thousand pound,
 I’d give it all to Sally:
 She is the darling of my heart,
 And she lives in our alley.
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My master and the neighbors all
 Make game of me and Sally,
 And, but for her, I’d better be
 A slave and row a galley;
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{84}

But when my seven long years are out,
 Oh, then I’ll marry Sally!
 And then how happily we’ll live,
 But not in our alley.
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“EARLY ONE MORNING.”

EARLY one morning, just as the sun was rising,
 I heard a maid sing in the valley below:
 “Oh, don’t deceive me! oh, never leave me!
 How could you use a poor maiden so?
“Oh, gay is the garland and fresh are the roses
 I’ve culled from the garden to bind up my brow.
 Oh, don’t deceive me! oh, do not leave me!
 How could you use a poor maiden so?
“Remember the vows you made to your Mary;
 Remember the bow’r where you vowed to be true.
 Oh, don’t deceive me! oh, do not leave me!
 How could you use a poor maiden so?”
Thus sang the poor maiden, her sorrows bewailing;
 Thus sang the poor maid in the valley below:
 “Oh, don’t deceive me! oh, never leave me!
 How could you use a poor maiden so?”
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KITTY OF COLERAINE.

AS beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping
 With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine,
 When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled,
 And all the sweet buttermilk water’d the plain.
Oh, what shall I do now? ’Twas looking at you, now.
 Sure, sure, such a pitcher I’ll ne’er meet again.
 ’Twas the pride of my dairy. Oh, Barney M’Leary,
 You’re sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine!
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I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,
 That such a misfortune should give her such pain.
 A kiss then I gave her. Before I did leave her,
 She vow’d for such pleasure she’d break it again.
’Twas haymaking season. I can’t tell the reason—
 Misfortunes will never come single—that’s plain—
 For very soon after poor Kitty’s disaster,
 The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.
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OLD KING COLE.

OLD King Cole was a merry old soul,
 And a merry old soul was he;
 And he call’d for his pipe,
 And he call’d for his bowl,
 And he call’d for his fiddlers three.
 Then twedle, twedle, twedle, twedle, twedle went the fiddlers;
 Twedle, twedle, twedle, twedle, twedle, twedle twee.
 There’s none so rare as can compare
 To King Cole and his fiddlers three.
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HARVEST-HOME.

COME, Roger and Nell;
 Come, Simkin and Bell;
 Each lad with his lass hither come,
 With singing and dancing,
 In pleasure advancing
 To celebrate harvest-home.
 ’Tis Ceres bids play
 And keep holiday
 To celebrate harvest-home.
Our labor is o’er, and our barns in full store
 Now swell with rich gifts of the land.
 Let each man then take, for the prong and the rake,
 His can and his lass in his hand.
 ’Tis Ceres bids play
 And keep holiday
 To celebrate harvest-home.
No courtiers can be so happy as we
 In innocent pastime and mirth,
 {103}
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{104}

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While thus we carouse with our sweetheart or spouse,
 And rejoice o’er the fruits of the earth.
 ’Tis Ceres bids play
 And keep holiday
 To celebrate harvest-home.
 {105}
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{106}

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{107}

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{108}

“’TWAS DOWN IN CUPID’S GARDEN.”

’TWAS down in Cupid’s garden
 For pleasure I did go,
 To see the fairest flowers
 That in that garden grow.
 The first it was the jessamine,
 The lily, pink, and rose,
 And surely they’re the fairest flow’rs
 That in that garden grows!
I’d not walked in that garden
 The part of half an hour,
 When there I saw two pretty maids
 Sitting under a shady bower.
 The first was lovely Nancy,
 So beautiful and fair;
 The other was a virgin
 Who did the laurel wear.
I boldly stepped up to her,
 And unto her did say,
 Are you engaged to any young man?
 Do tell to me, I pray!
 {109}
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{110}

I’m not engaged to any young man,
 I solemnly do swear;
 I mean to live a virgin,
 And still the laurel wear.
Then hand in hand together
 This lovely couple went;
 Resolved was the sailor boy
 To know her full intent—
 To know if he would slighted be
 When to her the truth he told.
 Oh no! oh no! oh no! she cried;
 I love a sailor bold.
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{111}

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{112}

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{113}

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PHILLADA.

OH, what a pain is love!
 How shall I bear it?
 She will unconstant prove;
 I greatly fear it.{114}
 She so torments my mind
 That my strength faileth,
 And wavers with the wind
 As a ship saileth.
 Please her the best I may,
 She loves still to gainsay:
 Alack and well-a-day!
 Phillada flouts me.
All the fair yesterday
 She did pass by me;
 She looked another way
 And would not spy me.
 I woo’d her for to dine,
 But could not get her;
 Will had her to the wine—
 He might intreat her.
 With Daniel she did dance;
 On me she looked askance:
 Oh, thrice unhappy chance!
 Phillada flouts me.
 {115}
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{116}

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Fair maid! be not so coy;
 Do not disdain me!
 I am my mother’s joy:
 Sweet! entertain me!
 She’ll give me when she dies
 All that is fitting:
 Her poultry and her bees,
 And her goose sitting,{117}
 A pair of mattress beds,
 And a bag full of shreds:
 And yet, for all this guedes,
 Phillada flouts me.
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She hath a clout of mine,
 Wrought with blue coventry,
 Which she keeps for a sign
 Of my fidelity;{118}
 But, ’faith, if she flinch,
 She shall not wear it;
 To Tib, my t’other wench,
 I mean to bear it.
 And yet it grieves my heart
 So soon from her to part:
 Death strike me with his dart!
 Phillada flouts me.
 {119}
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Thou shalt eat crudded cream
 All the year lasting,
 And drink the crystal stream
 Pleasant in tasting,
 {120}
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Whig and whey whilst thou lust,
 And ramble-berries,
 Pie-lid and pastry crust,
 Pears, plums, and cherries;
 Thy raiment shall be thin,
 Made of a weevil’s skin—
 Yet all’s not worth a pin:
 Phillada flouts me.{121}
Fair maiden! have a care,
 And in time take me;
 I can have those as fair,
 If you forsake me:
 For Doll the dairy-maid
 Laughed at me lately,
 And wanton Winifred
 Favors me greatly.
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{122}

One throws milk on my clothes;
 T’other plays with my nose:
 What wanting signs are those!
 Phillada flouts me.
I cannot work nor sleep
 At all in season,
 Love wounds my heart so deep,
 Without all reason.
 I ’gin to pine away
 In my love’s shadow,
 Like as a fat beast may
 Penned in a meadow.
 I shall be dead, I fear,
 Within this thousand year:
 And all for that my dear
 Phillada flouts me.
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