THE MILK-MAID'S SONG 



Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 

 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, 

 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, 

 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 



Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds, 

 Thy coral clasps, and amber studs, 

 All these in me no means can move 

 To come to thee, and be thy Love. 



What should we talk of dainties then, 

 Of better meat than 's fit for men ? 

 These are but vain : that 's only good 

 Which God hath blest, and sent for food. 



But could youth last, and love still breed, 

 Had joys no date, nor age no need ; 

 Then those delights my mind might move, 

 To live with thee, and be thy Love. 



MOTHER. Well, I have done my song ; but stay, honest 

 Anglers, for I will make Maudlin to sing you one short song 

 more. Maudlin, sing that song that you sung last night, when 

 young Condon the Shepherd played so purely on his oaten 

 pipe to you and your Ccusin Retty. 



MAUD. I will, Mother. 



I married a Wife of late, 

 The more 's my unhappy fate : 



I married her for love, 



As my fancy did me move, 

 And not for a worldly estate : 



But Oh ! the green-sickness 

 Soon changed her likeness; 

 And all her beauty did fail. 

 But 'tis not so, 

 With those that go, 

 Through frost and snow, 

 As all men know, 

 And carry the milking-pail. 



Pise. Well sung, good Woman ; I thank you ; I '11 give 

 you another dish of fish one of these days ; and then beg 



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