WEEPING WILLOW. 
187 
For thy grief brings her content: 
She is pleased if thou lament. 
Cuddy —Herdsman, I’ll be ruled by thee,— 
There liees grief and willowe-tree; 
Henceforth I will do as they, 
And love a new love every day. 
THE WILLOW. 
SHAKSPEARE. 
My mother had a maid called Barbara: 
She was in love \ but he she loved proved mad, 
And did forsake her. She had a song of “ Willow.’ 
An old thing ’twas, but it expressed her fortune, 
And she died singing it. 
THE WILLOW. 
SHAKSPEARE. 
There is a willow grows aslant the brook, 
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream ; 
There with fantastic garlands did she* come, 
Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, 
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, 
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them ; 
There on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds 
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; 
When down her weedy trophies and herself 
Fell in the weeping brook. 
* Ophelia. 
