Amo, amas, I love a lass, As a cedar tall and slender; Sweet…

A glass is good, and a lass is good, And a pipe to smoke in cold weather; The world is good, and the people are good, And we're all good fellows together.

I am a friar of orders grey, And down in the valleys I take my way; I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,— Good store of venison fills my scrip.

Dear sir, this brown jug, that now foams with mild ale, Out of which I now drink to sweet Kate of the vale, Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul, As e'er crack'd a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl;

Song like a rose should be; Each rhyme a petal sweet; For fragrance, melody, That when her lips repeat The words, her heart may know What secret makes them so:—

And also there’s a little star So white a virgin’s it must be:— Perhaps the lamp my love in heaven Hangs out to light the way for me.

O fairest of the feather’d train! For whom I sing, for whom I burn, Attend with pity to my strain, And grant my love a kind return.