ROBERT HERRICK
When with neglect, the lovers' bane,
Poor maids rewarded be For their love lost, their only gain
Is but a wreath from thee.
And underneath thy cooling shade,
When weary of the light, The love-spent youth and love-sick maid
Come to weep out the night.
��G C
��276 The Mad Maid's Song
VDOD-MORROW to the day so fair,
Good-morning, sir, to you; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair Bedabbled with the dew.
Good-morning to this primrose too, Good-morrow to each maid
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid.
Ah' woe is me, woe, woe is me!
Alack and well-a-day'- For pity, sir, find out that bee
Which bore my love away.
I'll seek him in your bonnet brave, I'll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they've made his grave I' th' bed of strawberries.
I'll seek him there; I know ere this The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him.
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