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