O WHAT a plague is love! 
   How shall I bear it? 
She will inconstant prove, 
   I greatly fear it. 
She so torments my mind 
   That my strength faileth, 
And wavers with the wind 
   As a ship saileth. 
Please her the best I may, 
She loves still to gainsay; 
Alack and well-a-day! 
   Phillada flouts me. 

At the fair yesterday 
   She did pass by me; 
She look'd another way 
   And would not spy me: 
I woo'd her for to dine, 
   But could not get her; 
Will had her to the wine-- 
   He might entreat her. 
With Daniel she did dance, 
On me she look'd askance: 
O thrice unhappy chance! 
   Phillada flouts me. 

Fair maid, be not so coy, 
   Do not disdain me! 
I am my mother's joy: 
   Sweet, entertain me! 
She'll give me, when she dies, 
   All that is fitting: 
Her poultry and her bees, 
   And her goose sitting, 
A pair of mattrass beds, 
And a bag full of shreds; 
And yet, for all this guedes, 
   Phillada flouts me! 

She hath a clout of mine 
   Wrought with blue coventry, 
Which she keeps for a sign 
   Of my fidelity: 
But i' faith, if she flinch 
   She shall not wear it; 
To Tib, my t'other wench, 
   I mean to bear it. 
And yet it grieves my heart 
So soon from her to part: 
Death strike me with his dart! 
   Phillada flouts me. 

Thou shalt eat crudded cream 
   All the year lasting, 
And drink the crystal stream 
   Pleasant in tasting; 
Whig and whey whilst thou lust, 
   And bramble-berries, 
Pie-lid and pastry-crust, 
   Pears, plums, and cherries. 
Thy raiment shall be thin, 
Made of a weevil's skin-- 
Yet all 's not worth a pin! 
   Phillada flouts me. 

In the last month of May 
   I made her posies; 
I heard her often say 
   That she loved roses. 
Cowslips and gillyflowers 
   And the white lily 
I brought to deck the bowers 
   For my sweet Philly. 
But she did all disdain, 
And threw them back again; 
Therefore 'tis flat and plain 
   Phillada flouts me. 

Fair maiden, have a care, 
   And in time take me; 
I can have those as fair 
   If you forsake me: 
For Doll the dairy-maid 
   Laugh'd at me lately, 
And wanton Winifred 
   Favours me greatly. 
One throws milk on my clothes, 
T'other plays with my nose; 
What wanting signs are those? 
   Phillada flouts me. 

I cannot work nor sleep 
   At all in season: 
Love wounds my heart so deep 
   Without all reason. 
I 'gin to pine away 
   In my love's shadow, 
Like as a fat beast may, 
   Penn'd in a meadow. 
I shall be dead, I fear, 
Within this thousand year: 
And all for that my dear 
   Phillada flouts me.