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?
I LOVED A LASS, A FAIR ONE
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 pass'd 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.
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.
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.
To maidens' 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.
So now is come our joyfullest part;
Let every man be jolly;
Each room with ivy-leaves is dressed,
And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine,
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry!
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,
And Christmas-blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with baked meat choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie;
And, if for cold it hap to die,
We'll bury it in a Christmas pie
And evermore be merry!
Rank misers now do sparing shun;
Their hall of music soundeth;
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run;
So all things there aboundeth.
The country folks themselves advance
With crowdy-muttons out of France;
And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry!
Good farmers in the country nurse
The poor that else were undone;
Some landlords spend their money worse,
On lust and pride in London.
There the roysters they do play,
Drab and dice their lands away,
Which may be ours another day,
And therefore let's be merry!
The client now his suit forbears;
The prisoner's heart is easèd;
The debtor drinks away his cares,
And for the time is pleased.
Though other's purses be more fat,
Why should we pine or grieve at that?
Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat,
And therefore let's be merry!
Hark! now the wags abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling;
Anon you'll see them in the hall,
For nuts and apples scrambling.
Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound;
Anon they'll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar's depth have found,
And there they will be merry!
The wenches with their wassail bowls
About the streets are singing ;
The boys are come to catch the owls;
The wild mare in is bringing;
Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box;
And to the dealing of the ox
Our honest neighbours come by flocks,
And here they will be merry!
Now kings and queens poor sheep-cots have,
And mate with everybody;
The honest now may play the knave,
And wise men play the noddy.
Some youths will now a-mumming go,
Some others play at Rowland-bo,
And twenty other game, boys, mo,
Because they will be merry!
Then wherefore, in these merry days,
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays
To make our mirth the fuller:
And, while we thus inspirèd sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring;
Woods, and hills, and everything,
Bear witness we are merry!
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauties orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more, whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more, whither doth haste
The nightingale, when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more, where those stars light,
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.
Ask me no more, if east or west,
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.
HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee!
No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee!
But on, on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there is none to affright thee.
Let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber?
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number.
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