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A LOVE SONNET.

GEORGE WITHER.

Born 1588-Died 1667.

I lov'd a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e'er was seen,
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queene;
But foole as then I was,
I thought she lov'd me too,
But now, alas! sh'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Her hair like gold did glister,
Each eye was like a star,
She did surpass her sister
Which past all others farre;
She would me honey call-
She'd, oh-she'd kiss me too,
But now, alas! sh'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

In summer time to Medley
My love and I would go-
The boatmen there stood ready
My love and I to row;

For cream there would we call,
For cakes, and for prunes too,
But now, alas! sh'as left me,

Falero, lero, loo.

Many a merry meeting
My love and I have had ;
She was my only sweeting,
She made my heart full glad;
The tears stood in her eyes,
Like to the morning dew,
But now, alas! sh'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

And as abroad we walked
As lover's fashion is,
Oft as we sweetly talked,
The sun would steal a kiss;
The wind upon her lips
Likewise most sweetly blew,
But now, alas! sh'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Her cheeks were like the cherry,
Her skin as white as snow,

When she was blythe and merry,
She angel-like did show :
Her waist exceeding small,
The fives did fit her shoe,*
But now, alas! sh'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

In summer time or winter,
She had her hearts desire,
I still did scorn to stint her,
From sugar, sack, or fire:

* This is understood to mean, that her shoes were made upon the

last No. 5, being one of the smallest size.

The world went round about,

No cares we ever knew,
But now, alas! sh'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

As we walk'd home together
At midnight thro' the town,
To keep away the weather-
O'er her I'd cast my gown;
No cold my love should feel,
What e'er the heavens could do,
But now, alas! sh'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Like doves we would be billing,
And clip and kiss so fast,
Yet she would be unwilling
That I should kiss the last;
They're Judas kisses now,
Since that they prov'd untrue,
For now, alas! sh'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

To maiden's vows and swearing,
Henceforth no credit give,

You may give them the hearing-
But never them believe;

They are as false as fair,

Unconstant, frail, untrue;

For mine, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

'Twas I that paid for all things,
'Twas other drank the wine,
I cannot now recall things,
Live but a fool to pine:

'Twas I that beat the bush
The bird to others flew,
For she, alas! 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, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

No riches now can raise me,
No want makes me despair,
No misery amaze me,
Nor yet for want I care:
I have lost a world itself,
My earthly heaven, adieu!

Since she, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

[Ritson by an ingenious construction supposes this pretty song to have been written in 1606, when its author was eighteen years of age; but the learned antiquary's theory, Mr. Wilmott in his Lives of the Sacred Poets, justly laughs at. Mr. Ritson, sends Wither to College in 1604, (he went there in 1603) allows the poet that year to fall in love, the next "for the unfavourable return he experienced, and the third for the loss of his mistress," and concludes that the song "must have been written in 1606." [Ancient Songs, p. 206.] This reason is grounded upon the mention of Medley-house, "between Godstow and Oxford, very pleasantly situated just by the river, and a famous place for recreation in summer time," but Wither could have been there years after he left College; the whole thing is likely enough a creation of Ritson's fancy. Warton without any authority has given this song to Taylor the Water-poet.]

THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION.

GEORGE WITHER.

Shall I wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are;

Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May;
If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pin'd
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed Nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
The turtle dove or pelican:
If she be not so to me
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest,
Which may gain her name of Best;
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be.

Ellis reads "merit's value."

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