One throws milk on my clothes;
T’other plays with my nose:
What wanting signs are those!
Phillada flouts me.
I cannot work nor sleep
At all in season,
Love wounds my heart so deep,
Without all reason.
I ’gin to pine away
In my love’s shadow,
Like as a fat beast may
Penned in a meadow.
I shall be dead, I fear,
Within this thousand year:
And all for that my dear
Phillada flouts me.
