A poore soule sate sighing by a sicamore tree,
O willow, willow, willow;
His hand on his bosome, his head on his knee,
O willow, willow, willow;
O willow, willow, willow;
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland.

He sigh'd in his singing, and, after each groane,
"Adue to all pleasure, my true love is gone.

Oh, false is she turned; untrue she doth prove;
She renders me nothing, but hate for my love.

Oh, pitty me" (cride he), "you lovers each one,
Her heart's hard as marble, she rues not my moane."

Poets love nature, and themselves are love;
The scorn of fools, and mock of idle pride
The vile in nature worthless deeds approve
They court the vile, and spurn all good beside
Poets love nature, like the calm of heaven
Her gifts like heaven's love spread far and wide
In all her works there are no signs of leaven
Sorrow abashes from her simple pride
Her flowers like pleasures have their seasons birth
And bloom through region[s] here below
They are her very scriptures upon earth
And teach us simple mirth where e'er we go

Before this world's great frame, in which all things
Are now contained, found any being place,
Ere flitting Time could wag his eyas wings
About that mighty bound which doth embrace
The rolling spheres, and parts their hours by space,
That high eternal power, which now doth move
In all these things, moved in itself by love.

It loved itself, because itself was fair,
For fair is loved; and of itself begot
Like to itself his eldest son and heir,
Eternal, pure, and void of sinful blot,
The firstling of his joy, in whom no jot

A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love:
The folk who are buying and selling,
The clouds on their journey above
The cold wet winds ever blowing,
And the shadowy hazel grove
Where mouse-grey waters are flowing,
Threaten the head that I love.

Phillis , why should we delay
Pleasures shorter than the day?
Could we (which we never can)
Stretch our lives beyond their span;
Beauty like a shadow flies,
And our youth before us dies;
Or would youth and beauty stay,
Love hath wings, and will away.
Love hath swifter wings than Time;
Change in love to Heaven does clime.
Gods that never change their state,
Vary oft their love and hate.
  Phillis , to this truth we owe,
All the love betwixt us two:
Let not you and I require
What has been our past desire;

Phillips! whose touch harmonious could remove
The pangs of guilty pow'r and hapless love,
Rest here, distressed by poverty no more,
Here find that calm thou gav'st so oft before;
Sleep undisturbed within this peaceful shrine,
Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had a wife and couldn't keep her;
He put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well.

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had another, and didn't love her;
Peter learned to read and spell,
And then he loved her very well.

Parrots have richly color'd wings,
Not so the sweetest bird that sings;
Not so the lonely plaintive dove;
In sadder stole she mourns her love,
And every Muse in every tongue
Has heard and prais'd her nightly song.

A skilfull hand this Satyre made so near
To life, that only Breath is wanting here:
I am attendant to the Nymphs; before
I fill'd out purple wine, now water powre;
Who ere thou art com'st nigh, tread softly, lest
You waken Love out of his pleasing rest.

Pan loved his neighbour Echo--but that child
Of Earth and Air pined for the Satyr leaping;
The Satyr loved with wasting madness wild
The bright nymph Lyda,--and so three went weeping.
As Pan loved Echo, Echo loved the Satyr,
The Satyr, Lyda; and so love consumed them.--
And thus to each--which was a woful matter--
To bear what they inflicted Justice doomed them;
For, inasmuch as each might hate the lover,
Each, loving, so was hated.--Ye that love not
Be warned--in thought turn this example over,
That when ye love, the like return ye prove not.