FROM A CURRIER AND LEATHER-CUTTER.
Though I each day well dress my leather,
I often wish we were together;
For you alone have gain’d my heart,
And stripp’d my skin of ev’ry art.
In vain I colour, shave, and cut,
You to my tramp have surely put.
My wax is hard, my paste is spoil’d,
You my good souls have all beguil’d.
O then, sweetheart, to me incline,
And bless your constant Valentine.