_NEVER LOVE THEE MORE._ My dear and only love, take heed How thou thyself expose By letting longing lovers feed Upon such looks as those. I’ll marble-wall thee round about, And build without a door; But if thy heart do once break out, I’ll never love thee more. Let not their oaths, by volleys shot, Make any breach at all, Nor smoothness of their language plot A way to scale the wall; No balls of wildfire love consume The shrine which I adore; For if such smoke about it fume, I’ll never love thee more. [Illustration] Then if by fraud or by consent To ruin thou shouldst come, I’ll sound no trouble as of wont, Nor march by beat of drum, But fold my arms, like ensigns, up, Thy falsehood to deplore, And after such a bitter cup I’ll never love thee more. [Illustration] [Illustration: “Here’s to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen”] “_HERE’S TO THE MAIDEN OF BASHFUL FIFTEEN._” Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen, Now to the widow of fifty; Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass; I warrant she’ll prove An excuse for the glass. Here’s to the charmer whose dimples we prize, Now to the damsel with none, sir; Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And now to the nymph with but one, sir. _Let the toast_, etc. Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow, Now to her that’s as brown as a berry; Here’s to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that’s merry. _Let the toast_, etc. [Illustration] For let her be clumsy or let her be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather; So fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim, And let us e’en toast ’em together. _Let the toast_, etc. [Illustration] [Illustration: BARBARA ALLEN] [Illustration] _BARBARA ALLEN._ All in the merry Month of May, when green leaves they was springing, This young man on his Death-bed lay, for the love of _Barbara Allen_. He sent his man unto her then, in the Town where she was dwelling: You must come to my Master dear, if your name be _Barbara Allen_. For Death is printed in his face, and Sorrow’s in him dwelling, And you must come to my Master dear, if your name is _Barbara Allen_. If Death be printed on his face, and Sorrow’s in him dwelling, Then little better shall he be for Bonny _Barbara Allen_. [Illustration] [Illustration] So slowly, slowly she got up, and so slowly she came to him, And all she said when she came there, young Man, I think you are a dying.