But could Youth last, could Love still breed, Had Joy no date, had Age no need; Then those delights my mind might move, To live with thee, and be thy love. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. ―――― In _The Complete Angler_ Izaak Walton introduced these two songs, with some modifications, which are here produced from the First Edition (preserving the old orthography) of _The Complete Angler_, published in 1653:―― “As I left this place, and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me, ’twas a handsome milk-maid, that had cast away all care, and sung like a _Nightingale_; her voice was good, and the Ditty fitted for it; ’twas that smooth Song which was made by _Kit Marlow_, now at least fifty years ago; and the milk-maid’s mother sung an answer to it, which was made by _Sir Walter Raleigh_, in his younger days. They were old fashioned Poetry, but choicely good, I think much better than that now in fashion in this critical age:” THE MILKMAID’S SONG. Come live with me, and be my Love, And we wil all the pleasures prove That vallies, Groves, or hils, or fields, Or woods and steepie mountains yeelds. Where we will sit upon the _Rocks_, And see the Shepherds feed our _flocks_, By shallow _Rivers_, to whose falls Mellodious birds sing _madrigals_. And I wil make thee beds of _Roses_, And then a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers and a Kirtle, Imbroidered all with leaves of Mirtle. A Gown made of the finest wool Which from our pretty Lambs we pull, Slippers lin’d choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivie buds, With Coral clasps, and Amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my Love. The Shepherds 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. ―――― THE MILKMAID’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, And _Philomel_ becometh dumb, The Rest complains of cares to come. The Flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields, A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancies spring, but sorrows 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.