From Dr. John Wilson's Cheerful Airs or Ballads, 1660.
I SWEAR[30] by muscadel
That I do love thee well
And more than I can tell;
By the white claret and sack
I do love thy Black, black, black.
So lovely and so fair,
O'ershadowed with thy hair,
So nimble just like air:
All these set me on love's wrack
For thy sweeter Black, black, black.
No goddess 'mongst them all
So slender and so tall,
And graceful too withal:
Which makes my sinews to crack
For thy dainty Black, black, black.
Thy kind and loving eye,
When first I did espy,
Our loves it did descry,
Dumb speaking "What d'ye lack?"
Mine answered, "Thy Black, black, black."
From The New Academy of Compliments, 1671.
SWEET Jane, sweet Jane, I love thee wondrous well,
But I'm afraid
Thou'lt die a maid
And so lead apes to[31] hell.
For why,[32] my dear, 'tis pity it should be so
Thou'rt better than[33]
To take a man
And keep thee from the foe.
Thou art so pretty and fine,
And wondrous handsome too;
Then be not coy,
Let's get a boy:
Alas! what should we do?
I see thy brow,
And well I know
What colour is below:
Then do not jest,
But smile the rest:
I'faith I know what I know.