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'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 upfavourable return he expe. rienced, 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.]



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?



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 ;
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do,
That without them dare to woo :

If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be.

* Ellis reads“ merit's value."

And unless that mind I see

What care I how great she be.
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair :
If she love me, this believe,
I will die, ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo
I can scorn and let her go :

If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be.

[From his "Mistresse of Philarete," 1622.]



Hence away, thou Syren, leave me,

Pish! unclasp these wanton arms ; Sugʻred words can ne'er deceive me, (Though thou prove a thousand charms).

Fie, fie, forbear;

No common snare
Can ever my affection chain :

Thy painted baits,

And poor deceits,
Are all bestow'd on me in vain.

I'm no slave to such, as you be;

Neither shall that * snowy breast,
Rolling eye, and lip of ruby
Ever rob me of my rest :

Go, go display

Thy beauty's ray
To some more-soon enamour'd swain :

Those commont wiles

Of sighs and smiles
Are all bestow'd on me in vain.
I have elsewhere vowed a duty;

Turn away thy tempting eye:
Show not me af painted beauty ;
These impostures I defy:

My spirit loathes

Where gawdy clothes
And fained oaths may love obtain :

I love her so,

Whose look swears no;
That all your labours & will be vain.
Can he prize the tainted posies,

Which on every || breast are worn;
That may pluck the virgin roses
From their never-touched thorn ?

I can go rest

On her sweet breast
That is the pride of Cynthia's train :

Then stay thy tongue;

Thy mermaid song
Is all bestowed on me in vain.

Variations from an old copy printed by Ellis. * Nor shall that soft.

7 forced 1 thy. thy labour.

I others.

He's a fool that basely dallies,

Where each peasant mates with him : Shall I haunt the thronged vallies, Whilst there's noble bills to clim'?

No, no, though clowns

Are scar'd with frowns,
I know the best can but disdain ;

And those I'll prove

So will thy love
Be all bestowed on me in vain.

I do scorn to vow a duty,

Where each lustful lad may woo : Give me her whose sun-like beauty, Buzzards dare not soar unto :

She, she it is

Affords that bliss
For which I would refuse no pain :

But such as you,

Fond fools, adieu !
You seek to captive me in vain.

Leave me then, you * Syren leave me ;

Seek no more to work me harms : Crafty wiles cannot deceive me, Whof am proof against your charms :

You labour may

To lead astray
The heart that constant shall remain :

And I the while

Will sit and smile
To see you spend your time in vain.

* Thou.


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