Classic Poem

When deadly sickenesse did me grieve,
And Phisicke sayd I could not live,
I then for thee did care and carke,
And gave to thee a thousand Marke:
Thou knowst too well I doe not faine,
My Will (then made) doth show the same;
And for because that I did see,
My Gardian wisht not well to thee,
I made him sweare if I did dye
That thou shouldst have it presently.
 For which to keepe my Head from harme,
 A Willow-Garland have I warme.

But wouldst thou know if thou to me,
For any more beholding be,
Yes, that thou art, (thou fickell Wench,)
More then thou well canst recompence;
Thou owest so much thou canst not pay,
Though thou shouldst live full many a day;
And what the same is wouldst thou know?
Then list to mee, and Ile thee show:
Thy life it is, thy life I claime,
Of mee (next God) thou holdest the same:
 For Willow-Garland's not enough,
 To make amends for such deare stuffe

But thou (perhaps) forgotten have,
How (silly I) thy life should save;
If so thou hast, but lend thine eare,
And thou the same againe shalt heare.
That Summer last, when merry wee
Into the Countrey rode with glee,
From London we to Barke-shire came,
Along the beaten Highway plaine,
Towards Cotshold , as we rode amaine
(For there to be we wisht full faine)
 (As faine as I would glad be sped,
 Of Willow-Garland from my head.)

By Botly Mils we then did passe,
Where whilest thy Horse a drinking was,
Somewhat (by chance) him so did sting,
That downe, in deepest, he did fling
His Mistresse; and such was thy luck,
One of thy feet in Stirrop stuck,
In water was thy Head and Arme,
Thy Legs and Thighes they had no harme,
So that thou felst in open sight,
As Bolt (for nounce) were pitcht upright.
 Blest hadst thou beene, as then, if thou
 Hadst caught a Willow-Garland bow.

Ah spightfull Chance, what cloath'd should be,
That naked was, for each to see;
Thy Face and Necke, which should be showne,
The churlish waves had over-flowne;
And thy sweet Paps, with dainty Brest,
Did in the Deepe (unwilling) rest.
Bare show'd those matchlesse parts to eye,
Like driven Snow new fallen from skye:
Thy Belly round, the bulke of Love,
For very griefe did pant and move:
 As I doe grieve to weare so long,
 The Willow-Garland sent me wrong.

Thy dainty Thighes did quaver oft,
Like Marble Pillars rais'd aloft,
And as the Streame past to and fro,
So still more fayrer they did show,
Thy Navill (pretty Whirle-poole smooth)
The Waters strave to court with Love.
Whilst from the Stirrop all this time,
Stirre durst not matchlesse foote of thine,
Lest if from thence it once should fall,
Thy comely Corpse should drowne withall,
 And drown'd th'adst beene, but that I came,
 The Willow-Garland to obtaine.

A wofull sight (for Griefe and shame)
To thee that long didst so remaine;
A heavy note to heare thee cry,
To us which were the standers by:
Wee all were in a deadly maze,
Each one, on other then did gaze;
But none was ready in that rout,
To help thee of the waters out.
Each man as then strain'd courtesie,
Whilst in the Ford thou thus didst lye.
 Then of thy Trickes thou thought'st not of,
 Nor Willow-Garlands bitter scoffe.

Thy Dnabsuh then, amongst the rest,
But slow to help, himselfe addrest,
Nor any of our frighted Crew;
As farre as I that time could view:
Which when I saw, with courage bold,
The sturdy streame I did behold,
And straight withouten more adoe,
With hands stretch forth I swam thee to,
And in mine armes with willing strength,
To land I brought thee at the length:
 Not thinking then thou me would'st quit
 With Willow-Garland nothing fit.