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.