17
To hear you moan, love, I cannot bear,
nor cure you of your disease,
But I’ll be sure to return back again,
When all friends will be pleas’d.
I suppose your friends will never be pleas'd,
They are grown so lofty and high,
Yet I’ll never prove false to the girl I love,
Till the stars fall from the sky.
Suppose the stars never fall from the sky,
And the rocks never melt with the sun,
Yet I ne’er will prove false to the girl I love,
Till all these things are done.
Suppose these things should never be done,
While you and I do live,
Yet I’ll ne’er-prove false to the girl I love,
Till we both go to one grave.
O don’t you see yon little turtle-dove,
That sits on yonder tree,
Making a lament for its true-love;
And so will I for thee, my dear;
And so will I for thee.
So now we must part, my dearest love,
Perhaps to meet no more;
I hope you’ll mind your promise to me,
Till you return on shore,
Till you return on shore.
B3
