Classic Poem

Good morrow to the day so fair,
Good morning, sir, to you;
Good morrow to mine own torn hair
Bedabbled with the dew.

Good morning to this primrose, too;
Good morrow to each maid,
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my love is laid.

Ah woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack and welladay!
For pity, sir, find out that bee
Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave,
I'll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think th'ave made his grave
I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him,
And who with green-turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender (pray take heed):
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home; but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.