What wonder that the world complains
When she each am’rous suit disdains?
Close to her mother’s side she clings,
And mocks the death her folly brings
To gentle swains that feel the smarts
Her eyes inflict upon their hearts.
Whilst thus the years of youth go by,
Shall Colin languish, Strephon die?
Nay, cruel nymph! come, choose a mate,
And choose him ere it be too late!
Similar Posts
There were three cavaliers that went over the Rhine,
‘And where is thy daughter? We would she were here,–Go fetch us that maiden to gladden our cheer!’‘I’ll fetch thee thy goblets full foaming,’ she said,‘But in yon darkened chamber the maiden lies dead.’And lo! as they stood in the doorway, the whiteOf a shroud and a dead shrunken face met their sight.Then the first…
Out on the mountain over the town,
The trolls go up and the trolls go down,Bearing their packs and crooning a song;And this is the song the hill-folk croon,As they trudge in the light of the misty moon,–This is ever their dolorous tune:‘Gold, gold! ever more gold,–Bright red gold for dearie!’Deep in the hill the yeoman delvesAll night long, all night long;None…
Come hither, lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night,
And yonder sings ye angell as onely angells may,And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.To them that have no lyttel childe Godde sometimes sendeth downA lyttel childe that ben a lyttel lambkyn of his owne;And if so bee they love that childe, He willeth it to staye,But elsewise, in His mercie…
Where wail the waters in their flaw
And evermore that ghostly shoreBemoans the heir of Yvytot.Sometimes, when, like a fleecy pall,The mists upon the waters fall,Across the main float shadows twainThat do not heed the spectre’s call.The king his son of YvytotStood once and saw the waters goBoiling around with hissing soundThe sullen phantom rocks below.And suddenly he saw a faceLift from…
One asketh:
What’s the season pleaseth you?Is it summer suits you best,When from harvest toil we rest?Is it autumn with its gloryOf all surfeited desires?Is it winter, when with storyAnd with song we hug our fires?Or is spring most fair to you–Come, good Myrson, tell me true!’Another answereth:‘What the gods in wisdom sendWe should question not, my…
Though care and strife
Upon my word I do not heed ’em;In bed I lieWith books hard by,And with increasing zest I read ’em.Propped up in bed,So much I’ve readOf musty tomes that I’ve a headfulOf tales and rhymesOf ancient times,Which, wife declares, are ‘simply dreadful!’They give me joyWithout alloy;And isn’t that what books are made for?And yet–and yet–(Ah,…