An hundred kisses then,
For my farewel she gave;
Crying, Sweet Barnwell, when shall I
Again thy company have? 120
O stay not hence too long,
Sweet George, have me in mind.
Her words bewicht my childishness,
She uttered them so kind:
So that I made a vow, 125
Next Sunday without fail,
With my sweet Sarah once again
To tell some pleasant tale.
When she heard me say so,
The tears fell from her eye; 130
O George, quoth she, if thou dost fail,
Thy Sarah sure will dye.
Though long, yet loe! at last,
The appointed day was come,
That I must with my Sarah meet; 135
Having a mighty sum
Of money in my hand,[426]
Unto her house went I,
Whereas my love upon her bed
In saddest sort did lye. 140
What ails my heart's delight,
My Sarah dear? quoth I;
Let not my love lament and grieve,
Nor sighing pine, and die.
But tell me, dearest friend, 145
What may thy woes amend,
And thou shalt lack no means of help,
Though forty pound I spend.
With that she turn'd her head,
And sickly thus did say, 150
Oh me, sweet George, my grief is great,
Ten pound I have to pay
Unto a cruel wretch;
And God he knows, quoth she,
I have it not. Tush, rise, I said, 155
And take it here of me.