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The old Ballet of shepheard Tom.
AS I late wandred over a Plaine,
Upon a hill piping I spide a shephards swaine:
His slops were of green, his coat was of gray,
And on his head a wreath of willow & of bay.
He sigh'd and he pip't,
His eyes he often wip't,
He curst and ban'd the boy,
That first brought his annoy:
Who with the fire of desire, so inflam'd his minde,
To doate upon a lasse; so various & unkinde.
Then howling, he threw his whistle a way,
And beat his heeles agen the ground whereon he lay.
He swore & he star'dhe was quite bereft of hope,
And out of his scrip he pulled a rope:
Quoth he, the man that wooes,
With me prepare his noose;
For rather then I'le fry,
By hemp Ile choose to dy.
Then up he rose, & he goes streight unto a tree,
Where he thus complaines of his lasses cruelty,
A pox upon the divell, that ever twas my lot,
To set my love upon so wooddish a trot.