Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deservings known,
Make me quite forget my 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?

'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;

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:

For, if she be not for me,

What care I for whom she be?

From "The Mistress of Philarete," published in 1622.

I LOVED A LASS, A FAIR ONE.

GEORGE WITHER.

I LOV'D a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen;
But fool as then I was,

I thought she lov'd me too,
But now, alas! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Her hair like gold did glister,
Each eye was like a star,

She did surpass her sister

Which passed all others far;

She would me honey call,

She'd, oh-she'd kiss me too,

But now, alas! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

In summer time to Medley,1
My love and I would go-
The boatmen there stood ready
My love and me to row;
For cream there would we call,

For cakes, and for prunes too,
But now, alas! she's 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! she's left me,

Falero, lero, loo.

1 Medley House, between Godstow and Oxford. It has been supposed by Ritson, from the mention of this place of summer recreation for the Oxford students, that Wither wrote this beautiful song when at College in the year 1606; but it is not likely to have been the production of a youth of 18. It did not occur to Ritson that a man may write about his college haunts long after he has quitted them.

And as abroad we walked,

As lovers' 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! she's 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! she's left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

In summer time or winter,

She had her heart's desire; I still did scorn to stint her,

From, sugar, sack, or fire; The world went round about, No cares we ever knew, But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo.

As we walk'd home together

At midnight through the town,

To keep away the weather

O'er her I'd cast my gown;

No cold my love should feel,
Whate'er the heavens could do,

But now, alas! she's 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! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo.

C

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 others drank the wine;
I cannot now recall things,
I'm but a fool to pine:
'Twas I that beat the bush,
The birds 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 woe make me despair,
No misery amaze me,

Nor yet for want I care;

I've lost a world itself,

My earthly heaven,-adieu !

Since she, alas! hath left me,

Falero, lero, loo.

TELL ME NO MORE.

HENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester, born 1591, died 1669. TELL me no more how fair she is;

I have no mind to hear,

The story of that distant bliss
I never shall come near:
By sad experience I have found
That her perfection is my wound.

And tell me not how fond I am

To tempt my daring fate,
From whence no triumph ever came
But to repent too late:

There is some hope ere long I may
In silence dote myself away.

I ask no pity, Love, from thee,
Nor will thy justice blame.
So that thou wilt not envy me
The glory of my flame,

Which crowns my heart whene'er it dies,
In that it falls her sacrifice.