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The maid (and thereby hangs a tale),
For such a maid no Whitsun-ale

Could ever yet produce:

No grape, that's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.

Her finger was so small, the ring,
Would not stay on, which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck:

And to say truth (for out it must)
It looked like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.

Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light:
But O she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.

Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison,

(Who sees them is undone),
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Catherine pear

The side that 's next the sun.

Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compar'd to that was next her chin
(Some bee had stung it newly);
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face;
I durst no more upon them gaze
Than on the sun in July.

Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou 'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get;

But she so handled still the matter,

They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.

Just in the nick the cook knocked thrice, And all the waiters in a trice

His summons did obey;

Each serving-man, with dish in hand, Marched boldly up, like our trained band, Presented, and away.

When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife or teeth was able
To stay to be intreated?
And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,
The company was seated.

The business of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat ;
Nor was it there denied:
Passion o' me, how I run on!
There's that that would be thought upon
(I trow) besides the bride.

Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick:
And when 'twas nam'd another's health,
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth;
And who could help it, Dick?

On the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again and sigh, and glance:

Then dance again and kiss:
Thus several ways the time did pass,
Whilst ev'ry woman wished her place,
And every man wished his.


Of thee, kind boy, I ask no red and white,
To make up my delight:

No odd becoming graces,

Black eyes, or little know-not-whats in faces;
Make me but mad enough, give me good store
Of love for her I court:

I ask no more,
'Tis love in love that makes the sport.

There's no such thing as that we beauty call,
It is mere cosenage all ;

For though some long ago

Liked certain colours mingled so and so,
That doth not tie me now from choosing new;
If I a fancy take

To black and blue,
That fancy doth it beauty make.

Tis not the meat, but 'tis the appetite
Makes eating a delight,

And if I like one dish

More than another, that a pheasant is;
What in our watches, that in us is found,-
So to the height and nick

We up be wound,
No matter by what hand or trick.



Love, Reason, Hate, did once bespeak
Three mates to play at barley-break;
Love Folly took; and Reason, Fancy;
And Hate consorts with Pride; so dance they.

Love coupled last, and so it fell,
That Love and Folly were in hell.


They break, and Love would Reason meet,
But Hate was nimbler on her feet;
Fancy looks for Pride, and thither
Hies, and they two hug together:
Yet this new coupling still doth tell,
That Love and Folly were in hell.

The rest do break again, and Pride
Hath now got Reason on her side;
Hate and Fancy meet, and stand
Untouched by Love in Folly's hand;
Folly was dull, but Love ran well;
So Love and Folly were in hell.


Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?
Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move: This cannot take her.

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!


I prithee send me back my heart,
Since I cannot have thine :

For if from yours you will not part,
Why then shouldst thou have mine?

Yet now I think on 't, let it lie,

To find it were in vain,

For th' hast a thief in either eye
Would steal it back again.

Why should two hearts in one breast lie
And yet not lodge together?
O love, where is thy sympathy,
If thus our breasts thou sever?

But love is such a mystery,
I cannot find it out:

For when I think I'm best resolv'd,
I then am in most doubt.

Then farewell care, and farewell woe,
I will no longer pine:

For I'll believe I have her heart,
As much as she hath mine.


Hast thou seen the down in the air,

When wanton blasts have tossed it? Or the ship on the sea,

When ruder winds have crossed it? Hast thou marked the crocodile's weeping, Or the fox's sleeping?

Or hast viewed the peacock in his pride,

Or the dove by his bride,

When he courts for his lechery?

O, so fickle, O, so vain, O, so false, so false is she!

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