ROBERT HERRICK

Ah ! woe is me, woe, woe is me !

Alack and well-a-day ! For pity, sir, find out that bee

Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave, I'll seek him in your eyes;

Nay, now I think they've made his grave F th j bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know ere this The cold, cold earth doth shake him ;

But I will go, or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead, He knows well who do love him,

And who with green turfs rear his head, And who do rudely move him.

He 's soft and tender (pray take heed) ;

With bands of cowslips bind him, And bring him home but 'tis decreed

That I shall never find him !

269. Comfort to a Touth that had lost his JLove

WHAT needs complaints, When she a place Has with the race Of saints ?

In endless mirth She thinks not on What's said or done In Earth.

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