Classic Poem

Love 's a lovely lad,
His bringing up is Beauty,
Who loves him not is mad;
For I must pay him duty
Now I am sad.

Hail to those sweet eyes,
That shine celestial wonder,
From thence do flames arise
Burns my poor heart asunder,
Now it fries.

Cupid sets a crown
Upon those lovely tresses;
Oh spoil not with a frown
What he so sweetly dresses.
I'll sit down.

Whither shall I go
To escape away from folly?
For now there's love I know,
Or else 'tis melancholy.
Heigh, heigho.

Yonder lies the snow,
But my heart cannot melt it:
Love shoots from his bow,
And my poor heart hath felt it.
Heigh, heigho.