gentlemen with a merry heart, and I'll sing the

second, when you have done.

And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, or hills, or field,
Or woods, and steepy mountains yield.

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
Embroider'd 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.

VEN. 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.

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.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy Love.

What should we talk of dainties then,
Of better meat than's fit for men?
These are but vain: that's only good
Which God hath blest, and sent for food.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need ;
Then those delights my mind might move,
To live with thee, and be thy Love.