Tixall Poetry.
129
But the false maid or never lov'd,
Or gave so quickly ore,
Ere his was to the hight improvd,
Her kindnes was noe more.
Or gave so quickly ore,
Ere his was to the hight improvd,
Her kindnes was noe more.
Even her dissembling she let fall,
And let him plainly see,
That though his hart she did inthral,
Her owne was ever free.
Now, least his case should pity move,
She shuns his very sight,
And leaves him to that hopeles love,
She did create in spite.
And let him plainly see,
That though his hart she did inthral,
Her owne was ever free.
Now, least his case should pity move,
She shuns his very sight,
And leaves him to that hopeles love,
She did create in spite.
Her name I could not make him tell,
Though vowing him my aid;
He said he never would reveale
In life, or death, the maid.
Then a wild looke the sheapard gave,
And falling underneath
A beech, where he had seene her last,
Resignd his utmost breath.
Though vowing him my aid;
He said he never would reveale
In life, or death, the maid.
Then a wild looke the sheapard gave,
And falling underneath
A beech, where he had seene her last,
Resignd his utmost breath.
r
