THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
45
XXII.
How I waste language—yet in truth
You must blame love, whose early rage
Made me a rhymster in my youth,
And over-garrulous in age.
Sing me that other song I made,
Half-angered with my happy lot,
When in the breezy limewood-shade,
I found the blue forget-me-not.
How I waste language—yet in truth
You must blame love, whose early rage
Made me a rhymster in my youth,
And over-garrulous in age.
Sing me that other song I made,
Half-angered with my happy lot,
When in the breezy limewood-shade,
I found the blue forget-me-not.
SONG.
All yesternight you met me not.
My ladylove, forget me not.
When I am gone, regret me not,
But, here or there, forget me not.
With your arched eyebrow threat me not,
And tremulous eyes, like April skies,
That seem to say, 'forget me not.'
I pray you, love, forget me not.
All yesternight you met me not.
My ladylove, forget me not.
When I am gone, regret me not,
But, here or there, forget me not.
With your arched eyebrow threat me not,
And tremulous eyes, like April skies,
That seem to say, 'forget me not.'
I pray you, love, forget me not.
