THE TROUT. 131 



Overbury's milkmaid's wish upon her, " That she may die 

 in the spring, and being dead, may have good store of 

 flowers stuck round about her winding-sheet." 



THE MILKMAID'S MOTHER'S ANSWER. 



If all the world and love were young, 

 And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 

 These pretty pleasures might we move 

 To live with thee, and be thy love. 



But Time drives flocks from field to fold, 

 When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; 

 Then Philomel becometh dumb, 

 And age complains of care to come. 



The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 

 To wayward winter reckoning yields. 

 A honey tongue, a heart of gal), 

 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 



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 bless'd, and sent for food. 



But could youth last and love still breed 

 Had joys no date, or age no need- 

 Then those delights my mind might move 

 To live with thee, and be thy love. 



