WEET Nelly, my heart’s delight,
Be loving, and do not slight
The proffer I make
For modesty’s sake.
I honor your beauty bright;
For love I profess,
I can do no less.
Thou hast my favor won.
And since I see
Your modesty,
I pray you agree,
And fancy me,
Though I’m but a farmer’s son.
She. No; I am a lady gay;
It is very well known I may
Have men of renown
In country or town.
So, Roger, without delay
Court Bridget, or Sue,
Kate, Nancy, or Prue;
Their loves will soon be won;
But don’t you dare
To speak me fair,
As if I were
At my last pray’r
To marry a farmer’s son.
He. My father has riches in store,
Two hundred a year and more,
Besides sheep and cows,
Carts, harrows, and ploughs
His age is above threescore,
And when he does die,
Then merrily I
Shall have what he has won.
Both land and kine,
All shall be thine,
If thou’lt incline,
And will be mine,
And marry a farmer’s son.
She. A fig for your cattle and corn!
Your proffered love I scorn.
’Tis known very well
My name it is Nell,
And you’re but a bumpkin born.
He. Well, since it is so,
Away I will go,
And I hope no harm is done.
Farewell! adieu!
I hope to woo
As good as you,
And win her too,
Though I’m but a farmer’s son.
She. Be not in such haste, quoth she;
Perhaps we may still agree,
For, man, I protest
I was but in jest;
Come, prithee, sit down by me.
For thou art the man
That verily can
Win me if e’er I’m won.
Both straight and tall,
Genteel withal,
Therefore I shall
Be at your call
To marry a farmer’s son.
He. Dear Nelly, believe me now,
I solemnly swear and vow
No lords in their lives
Take pleasure in wives
Like we that do drive the plough.
Whatever we gain
With labor or pain,
We don’t after wantons run,
As courtiers do.
And I never knew
A London beau
That could outdo
A country farmer’s son.
