Phyl. Here are threads, my true love, fine as silk,
To knit thee, to knit thee,
A pair of stockings white as milk.
Cor. Here are reeds, my true love, fine and neat,
To make thee, to make thee,
A bonnet to withstand the heat.
Phyl. I will gather flowers, my Corydon,
To set in thy cap.
Cor. I will gather pears, my lovely one,
To put in thy lap.
Phyl. I will buy my true love garters gay,
For Sundays, for Sundays,
To wear about his legs so tall.
Cor. I will buy my true love yellow say,
For Sundays, for Sundays,
To wear about her middle small.
Phyl. When my Corydon sits on a hill
Making melody—
Cor. When my lovely one goes to her wheel,
Singing cheerily—
Phyl. Sure methinks my true love doth excel
For sweetness, for sweetness,
Our Pan, that old Arcadian knight.
Cor. And methinks my true love bears the bell
For clearness, for clearness,
Beyond the nymphs that be so bright.
Phyl. Had my Corydon, my Corydon,
Been, alack! her swain—
Cor. Had my lovely one, my lovely one,
Been in Ida plain—
say] soie, silk.
