Oh! would I were dead now,Or up in my bed now,To cover my head nowAnd have a good cry!
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,And flesh and blood so cheap!
The pea is but a wanton witchIn too much haste to wed,And clasps her rings on every hand.
For my part getting up seems not so easyBy half as lying.
It is not linen you're wearing out,But human creatures' lives.
The cowslip is a country wench.
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye,Love half regrets to kiss it dry.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,Tears from the depths of some divine despair.
There is a tear for all who die,A mourner o'er the humblest grave.
The big round tearsCoursed one another down his innocent noseIn piteous chase.
'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in.
See, see what showers arise,Blown with the windy tempest of my heart.
If that the earth could teem with woman's tears,Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile.
For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.
Thrice he assay'd, and, thrice in spite of scorn,Tears, such as angels weep, burst forth.
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