Wit restor'd in several select poems not formerly publish't.

Phillada flouts me.

Oh! what a pain is love, How shall I bear it? Shee will inconstant prove, I greatly feare it. Shee so torments my mind, That my strength faileth; And wavers with the wind, As a shippe that saileth. Please her the best I •…•…y, Shee looks another way. A lack and well a day Phillada floutes me.

All the fair yesterday, She did passe by me; She look't another way, And would not spye me. I woo'd her for to dine, But could not get her.

VVill had her to the wine, Hee might intreat her. With Daniel she did dance, On me she look't a sconce. Oh thrice unhappy chance, Phillada floutes me.

Faire Maid, be not so coy, Doe not disdaine me: I am my mothers joy Sweet entertain me. Shee'l give me when she dyes, All that is fitting, Her Poultrey and her Bees And her Geese sitting. A paire of mattrisse bedds, And a bagge full of shredds. And yet for all this goods, Phillada floutes me.

She hath a cloute of mine Wrought with good Coventry, Which she keeps for a signe Of my fidelitie. But i'faith, if she flinch, She shall not weare it. To Tibb my tother wench I mean to beare it. And yet it grieves my heart, So soon from her to part.

Death strikes me with his dart, Phillada floutes me.

Thou shallt eate Curds & Cream, All the year lasting; And drink the Christall stream, Pleasant in tasting; Wigge and whay whilst thou burst, And ramble berry; Pye-lid and pasty crust, Pears, Plums, and Cherrey. Thy raiment shalbe thin, Made of a weavers skin, Yet all's not worth a pinne, Phillada floutes me.

Fair maidens, have a care, And in time take me: I can have those as fair, If you forsake me. For Doll the dairy-maide, Laught on me lately, And wanton VVinifrid Favours me greatly. One throws milk on my clothes, T'other playes with my nose; What wanton signes are those? Phillada flouts me.

I cannot work and sleep All at a season;

Love wounds my heart so deep, Without all reason. I'gin to pine a way, With greife and sorrow, Like to a fatted beast, Pen'd in a meadow. I shall be dead I fear, With in this thousand yeare; And all for very feare. Phillada flouts me.