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Thy silver dishes for thy meat,
As precious as the Gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepar'd each day for thee and me.

The Shepherd-Swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my Love.

Ven. Trust me, Master, it is a choice Song, and sweetly sung by honest Maudlin. I now see it was not without cause, that our good Queen Elizabeth did so often wish herself a Milk-maid all the month of May, because they are not troubled with fears and cares, but sing sweetly all the day, and sleep securely all the night: and without doubt, honest, innocent, pretty Maudlin does so. I'll bestow Sir Thomas Overbury's Milk-maid's wish upon her, "That she may die in the Spring, and being dead, "may have good store of flowers stuck round about "her winding sheet."

THE MILK-MAID'S MOTHER'S ANSWER.

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy Love,

But time drives flocks from, field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold,
Then Philomel becometh dumb,
And age complains of care to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields,
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy Love.

What should we talk of dainties then,
Of better meat than'sfitfor men?
These are but vain: that's only good
Which God hath blest, and sent for food.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy Love.

Mother. Well, I have done my song; but stay, honest Anglers, for I w ill make Maudlin to sing you one short song more. Maudlin, sing that song that you sung last night, when young Condon the Shepherd played so purely on his oaten pipe to you and your Cousin Hetty.

Maud. I will, Mother.

/ married a Wife of late,
The mores my unhappy fate:

1 married her for love,

As my fancy did me move,
And not for a worldly estate:

But Oh! the greensickness
Soon changed her likeness;
And all her beauty did fail.
But 'tis not so,
With those that go,
Through frost and snow,
As all men know,
And carry the milking-pail.

Pise. Well sung, good Woman; I thank you; I'll give you another dish of fish one of these days; and then beg another song of you. Come, Scholar, let Maudlin alone; do not you offer to spoil her voice. Look, yonder comes mine Hostess, to call us to supper. How now; is my Brother Peter come?

M

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