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What though that she doth smile on thee,

Perchance she doth not love, And though she smack thee once or twice, She thinks thee so to prove,

And when that thou dost think

She loveth none but thee,
She hath in store perhaps some more,

Which so deceived be.

Trust not therefore the outward shew,

Beware in any case :
For good conditions do not lie
Where is a pleasant face :

But if it be thy chance,

A lover true to have,
Be sure of this, thou shalt not miss

Each thing that thou wilt crave.

And when as thou (good reader) shalt

Peruse this scroll of mine, Let this a warning be to thee, And say a friend of thine

Did write thee this of love,

And of a zealous mind, Because that he sufficiently

Hath tried the fem

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Here Cambridge now I bid farewell,
Adieu to students all

; Adieu unto the colleges, And unto Gunvil-hall:

And you my fellows once,

Pray unto Jove that I May have relief for this my grief,

And speedy remedy :

And that he shield you everichone

From beauty's luring looks,
Whose bait hath brought me to my bain,

And caught me from my books :
Wherefore for you my prayer shall be,
To send

you
better

grace, That modesty with honesty

May guide your youthful race.

[Finis quod Thomas Richardson, sometime Student in

Cambridge.]

XIII.

ADDRESS TO A DISAPPOINTED LOVER,

WEARING A WILLOW BRANCH.

[From “ the Muses Gardin for Delights,” by Robert

Jones, 1610.]
І А.

AM so farre from pittying thee,
That wear’st a branch of willow tree,
That I do envie thee and all,
That once were high and got a fall :

O willow, willow, willo tree,
I would thou didst belong to mee.

Thy wearing willow doth imply,
That thou art happier farre then I,
For once thou wert where thou wouldst be,
Though now thou wear'st the willow tree:

O willow, willow, sweete willow,
Let me once lie upon her pillow.

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I doe defie both boughe and roote,
And all the fiends of hell to boote
One houre of paradised joye,
Makes purgatorie seeme a toye:

O willow, willow, doe thy worst,
Thou canst not make me more ac

I have spent all my golden time
In writing many a loving rime,
I have consumed all my youth
In vowing of my faith and trueth :

O willow, willow, willow tree,
Yet can I not beleeved bee.

And now alas it is too late,
Gray hayres, the messenger of fate,
Bid me to set my heart at rest,
For beautie loveth yong men best :

O willow willow I must die,
Thy servant's happier farre then I.

XIV.

« THE DECEASED MAIDEN LOVER.

Being a pleasant new Court-song." [From a black letter copy printed for the assigns of

Thomas Symcocke.]
As I went forth one summer's day,

To view the meadows fresh and gay,
A pleasant bower I espied,

Standing hard by a river side, And in 't a maiden I heard cry,

Alas there's none ere lov'd like I.

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I couched close to hear her moan,

With many a sigh and heavy groan, And wisht that I had been the wight,

That might have bred her heart's delight, But these were all the words that she

Did still repeat, None loves like me.

Then round the meadows did she walk,

Catching each flower by the stalk, Such as within the meadows grew,

As dead-man's thumb and hare-bell blue, And as she pluckt them, still cried she,

Alas, there's none ere lov'd like me.

A bed therein she made to lie,

Of fine green things that grew fast by,
Of poplar's and of willow leaves,

Of sicamore and flaggy sheaves,
And as she pluckt them, still cried she,

Alas, there's none ere lov'd like me.

The little larkfoot she'd not pass,

Nor yet the flowers of three-leaved grass, With milkmaids honey-suckle's phrase,

The crow's-foot, nor the yellow crayse, And as she pluckt them, still cried she,

Alas, there's none ere lov'd like me.

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