Piscator. No, it is none of those; it is a Song that your daughter sung the first part, and you sung the answer to it. Milk-woman. O, I know it now. I learned the first part in my golden age, when I was about the age of my poor daughter; and the latter part, which indeed fits me best now, but two or three years ago, when the cares of the world began to take hold of me: but you shall, God willing, hear them both; and sung as well as we can, for we both love anglers. Come, Maudlin, sing the first part to the gentlemen, with a merry heart; and I'll sing the second when you have done. The Milk-maid's song. Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, or hills, or fields, Or woods, and steepy mountains yields; Where we will sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed our flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses; And, then, a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; 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 ivy-buds, With coral clasps, and amber studs. And if these pleasures may thee move, Come, live with me, and be my love, Thy silver dishes, for thy meat As precious as the Gods do eat Shall, on an ivory table, be Prepared 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. Venator. 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 cares 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.