George Wither

I loved a lass, a fair one, As fair as e'er was seen; She was indeed a rare one, Another Sheba queen: But, fool as then I was, I thought she loved me too:

And he that gives us in these days New Lords may give us new laws.

And I oft have heard defended,— Little said is soonest mended.

Though I am young, I scorn to flit On the wings of borrowed wit.

Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat, And therefore let ’s be merry.

Jack shall pipe and Gill shall dance.

Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman’s fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care, ’Cause another’s rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May,