THE MAD MAID'S SONG
Good-morrow to the Day so fair,
Good-morning, Sir, to you:
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.
Good-morning to this Prim-rose too,
Good-morrow to each maid,
That will with flowers the Tomb bestrew
Wherein my Love is laid.
Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack and welladay!
For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee
Which bore my Love away.
Ile seek him in your Bonnet brave,
Ile seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now, I think they've made his grave
I' the bed of strawburies.
Ile seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold Earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, Sir, to awake him.
Pray hurt him not, though he be dead,
He knowes well who do love him,
And who with green-turfes reare his head,
He's soft and tender (Pray take heed);
With bands of Cowslips bind him,
And bring him home—but 't is decreed
That I shall never find him.
Robert Herrick
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