She hath a clout of mine,
Wrought with blue coventry,
Which she keeps for a sign
Of my fidelity;
But, ’faith, if she flinch,
She shall not wear it;
To Tib, my t’other wench,
I mean to bear it.
And yet it grieves my heart
So soon from her to part:
Death strike me with his dart!
Phillada flouts me.
Thou shalt eat crudded cream
All the year lasting,
And drink the crystal stream
Pleasant in tasting,
Whig and whey whilst thou lust,
And ramble-berries,
Pie-lid and pastry crust,
Pears, plums, and cherries;
Thy raiment shall be thin,
Made of a weevil’s skin—
Yet all’s not worth a pin:
Phillada flouts me.
Fair maiden! have a care,
And in time take me;
I can have those as fair,
If you forsake me:
For Doll the dairy-maid
Laughed at me lately,
And wanton Winifred
Favors me greatly.
