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FROM GAMMER GURTON'S NEEDLE,
Cannot eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure, I think that I can drink
I stuff my skin so full within
I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
A little bread shall do me stead,
No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow,
I am so wrapp'd, and thoroughly lapp'd,
Back and side, &c.
And Tib, my wife, that as her life
And saith, "Sweetheart, I took my part
Master of Frinity
Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to.
And all poor souls that have scoured bowls,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
A STRANGE PASSION OF A LOVER.
So jest I oft, and feel no joye;
She sends sweet notes from out her breast:
How joys approach when sorrows shrink.
And as fair Philomene again
Can watch and sing when others sleep,
To wray the woe that makes her weep:
The which to thee, dear wench, I write,
I cannot live; it will not be,
I die to think to part from thee.
THE DOLE OF DESPAIR,
Written by a Lover disdainfully rejected, contrary to former Promises.
Must alledge, and thou canst tell
How faithfully I vow'd to serve:
And how thou seem'dst to like me well;
And how thou saidst I did deserve
To be thy Lord, thy Knight, thy King,
And canst thou now, thou cruel one,
Is faith so fled into the air?
For hault disdain, you might be she;
And in reward of thy desert,
I hope at last to see thee paid With deep repentance for thy part Which thou hast now so lewdly play'd; Medoro, he must be thy make,
Since thou Orlando dost forsake.
BLOW, blow thou Winter-wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude:
Though thou the waters warp,
a day, (alack the day!)
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom, passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air.
Through the velvet leaves the wind
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou, for whom ev'n Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiop were;