Shall my silly heart be pined 'Cause I see a woman kind; Or a well disposed nature Joinéd with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder, than Turtle-dove or pelican, If she be not so to me What care I how kind she be? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well-deservings known Make me quite forget mine own? Be she with, that goodness blest Which may merit name of Best; If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? She that bears a noble mind If not outward helps she find, Thinks what with them he would do Who without them dares her woo; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be? Great or good, or kind or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be? _G. Wither_ CXXXII _MELANCHOLY_ Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly: There's nought in this life sweet If man were wise to see't, But only melancholy, O sweetest Melancholy! Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, A tongue chain'd up without a sound! Fountain-heads and pathless groves, Places which pale passion loves! Moonlight walks, when all the fowls Are warmly housed save bats and owls! A midnight bell, a parting groan! These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. _J. Fletcher_ CXXXIII _FORSAKEN_ O waly waly up the bank, And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon burn-side Where I and my Love wont to gae! I leant my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true Love did lichtly me. O waly waly, but love be bonny A little time while it is new; But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld And fades awa' like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my head? Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true Love has me forsook, And says he'll never loe me mair. Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed; The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me: Saint Anton's well sall be my drink, Since my true Love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle Death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearíe.