In durance vile[450:4] here must I wake and weep,

And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.

Epistle from Esopus to Maria.

[[451]]

Oh, my luve 's like a red, red rose,

That 's newly sprung in June;

Oh, my luve 's like the melodie

That 's sweetly played in tune.

A Red, Red Rose.

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair.