Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/318

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ROBERT HERRICK

When with neglect, the lovers' bane,

Poor maids rewarded be For their love lost, their only gain

Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,

When weary of the light, The love-spent youth and love-sick maid

Come to weep out the night.

��G C

��276 The Mad Maid's Song

VDOD-MORROW to the day so fair,

Good-morning, sir, to you; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morning to this primrose too, Good-morrow to each maid

That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid.

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 I' th' 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.

�� �

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