If women could be fair, and yet not fond,

           Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,

           I would not marvel that they make men bond

           By service long to purchase their good will;

           But when I see how frail those creatures are,

           I muse that men forget themselves so far.

           To mark the choice they make, and how they change,

           How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan;

           Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range,

           These gentle birds that fly from man to man;

           Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist,

           And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?

           Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,

           To pass the time when nothing else can please,

           And train them to our lure with subtle oath,

           Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease;

           And then we say when we their fancy try,

           To play with fools, O what a fool was I!

                Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

                Thou art not so unkind

                As man's ingratitude;

                Thy tooth is not so keen,

                Because thou art not seen,

                Although thy breath be rude.

           Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:

           Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

                Then, heigh ho! the holly!

                This life is most jolly.

                Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,

                That dost not bite so nigh

                As benefits forgot:

                Though thou the waters warp,

                Thy sting is not so sharp

                As friend remember'd not.

           Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:

           Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:

                Then heigh ho, the holly!

                This life is most jolly.

                My thoughts hold mortal strife;

                I do detest my life,

                And with lamenting cries

                Peace to my soul to bring

           Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise:

           —But he, grim grinning King,

           Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,

           Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,

           Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.

             Come away, come away, Death,

           And in sad cypres let me be laid;

             Fly away, fly away, breath;

           I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

           My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

                O prepare it!

           My part of death no one so true

                Did share it.

             Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

           On my black coffin let there be strown;

             Not a friend, not a friend greet

           My poor corpse, where my bones shall thrown:

           A thousand thousand sighs to save,

                Lay me, O where

           Sad true lover never find my grave,

                To weep there.

           Fear no more the heat o' the sun,

              Nor the furious winter's rages:

           Thou thy worldly task hast done,