From a collection entitlea " WIT RESTORED."
Edit. 1658. Duod.

PHILLIDA FLOUTS ME.

OH! what a pain is love;
How fhall I bear it?
She will unconftant prove,
I greatly fear it.

She fo torments my mind,

That my ftrength faileth,
And wavers with the wind,

As a fhip that faileth;
Please her the best I

may,

She looks another way;
Alack and well-a-day!

Phillida flouts me!

All 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 fhe did dance,

On me the look'd askance, Oh! thrice unhappy chance! Phillida flouts me!

Fair maid! be not so coy,

Do not difdain 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 geese fitting;
A pair of mattrass beds,

And a bagful of fhreds;

And yet for all this goods

Phillida flouts me!

She hath a clout of mine,

Wrought with good Coventry,

Which the keeps for a fign

Of my fidelity.

But i' faith, if she flinch,

She shall not wear it ;

To TIBB, my t'other wench,
I mean to bear it.

And yet it grieves my heart

So foon from her to part!

Death ftrikes me with his dart! Phillida flouts me!

Thou shalt eat curds and cream

All the year lafting;

And drink the crystal stream,

Pleasant in tafting:

Wigge and whey, while thou burst,

And ramble-berry, Pye-lid and pafty cruft,

Pears, plums, and cherry; Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weaven skin; Yet all not worth a pin!

Phillida flouts me !

Fair maidens, have a care,

And in time take me;

I can have those as fair,

If

you forfake me.

For DOLL the dairy-maid

Laugh'd on me lately, And wanton WINIFRED

Favours me greatly.

One throws milk on my clothes,

T'other plays with my nofe: What wanton figns are those ? Phillida flouts me !

I cannot work and sleep

All at a season;

Love wounds my heart fo deep,

Without all reason.

I'gin to pine away,
With grief and forrow,
Like to a fatted beaft

Penn'd in a meadow.

I fhall be dead, I fear,

Within this thousand year,

very

And all for

fear!

Phillida flouts me !

From the fame, by D. Stroad.

ANSWER TO "THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY."

RETURN, my joys! and hither bring
A tongue not made to speak but fing;
A jolly fpleen, an inward feast,
A causeless laugh without a jeft ;
A face which gladness doth anoint,
An arm, for joy, flung out of joint;
A fpriteful gait that leaves no print,
And makes a feather of a flint;
A heart that's lighter than the air,
An eye ftill dancing in its sphere;
Strong mirth which nothing shall controul,
A body nimbler than a foul;

Free wand'ring thoughts, not tied to muse,
Which, thinking all things, nothing chufe,
Which, ere we see them come, are gone;
These life itself doth feed

upon:

Then take no care, but only to be jolly,
To be more wretched than we must, is folly.

T