O WHAT a plague is love! How shall I bear it? She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it. She so torments my mind That my strength faileth, And wavers with the wind As a ship saileth. Please her the best I may, She loves still to gainsay; Alack and well-a-day! Phillada flouts me. At 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 she did dance, On me she look'd askance: O thrice unhappy chance! Phillada flouts me. Fair maid, be not so coy, Do not disdain 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 goose sitting, A pair of mattrass beds, And a bag full of shreds; And yet, for all this guedes, Phillada flouts me! She hath a clout of mine Wrought with blue coventry, Which she keeps for a sign Of my fidelity: But i' faith, if she flinch She shall not wear it; To Tib, my t'other wench, I mean to bear it. And yet it grieves my heart So soon from her to part: Death strike me with his dart! Phillada flouts me. Thou shalt eat crudded cream All the year lasting, And drink the crystal stream Pleasant in tasting; Whig and whey whilst thou lust, And bramble-berries, Pie-lid and pastry-crust, Pears, plums, and cherries. Thy raiment shall be thin, Made of a weevil's skin -- Yet all 's not worth a pin! Phillada flouts me. In the last month of May I made her posies; I heard her often say That she loved roses. Cowslips and gillyflowers And the white lily I brought to deck the bowers For my sweet Philly. But she did all disdain, And threw them back again; Therefore 'tis flat an plain Phillada flouts me. Fair maiden, have a care, And in time take me; I can have those as fair If you forsake me: For Doll the dairy-maid Laugh'd at me lately, And wanton Winifred Favours me greatly. One throws milk on my clothes, T'other plays with my nose; What wanting signs are those? Phillada flouts me. I cannot work nor sleep At all in season: Love wounds my heart so deep Without all reason. I 'gin to pine away In my love's shadow, Like as a fat beast may, Penn'd in a meadow. I shall be dead, I fear, Within this thousand year: And all for that my dear Phillada flouts me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE POET'S TESTAMENT by GEORGE SANTAYANA THE RAT by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES YOUR MISSION by ELLEN M. HUNTINGTON GATES MISSIONARY HYMN by REGINALD HEBER WHY I WRITE NOT OF LOVE by BEN JONSON ON CHLORIS WALKING IN THE SNOW by WILLIAM STRODE |