Because he follow'd Diana's train,
His life he loft, his life he loft,
Her love to gain.
Are, away gae thou frae me,
For I am no fit match for thee,
Thou bereaves me of my wits,
Wherefore I hate thy frantic fits:
Therefore I will care no moir,
Since that in cares comes no restoir;
Bur I will fing hey down a dee,
And caft doilt care away frae me.
If I want, I care to get,
The more I have, the more I fret ;
Love I much, I care for moir,
The moir I have I think I'm poor :
Thus grief and care my mind opprefs,
Nor wealth or wae gives no redrefs;
Therefore I'll care no moir in vain,
Since care has cost me meikle pain.
Is not this warld a slidd'ry ball?
And thinks men strange to catch a fall
Does not the sea baith ebb and flow ?
And fortune's but a painted fhow,
Why fhou'd men take care or grief,
Since that by these comes no relief?
Some careful faw what careless reap,
And wafters ware what niggards fcrape.
IV.
Well then, ay learn to kraw thyfelf,
And care not for this warldly pelf:
Whether thy 'ftate be great or small,
Give thanks to God whate'er befall,
Sae fall thou than ay live at eafe,
No fudden grief fhall thee displease;
Then mayft thou fing, Hey down a dee,
When thou haft caft ilk care frae thee.
Ome, love, let's walk by yonder spring,
Where we may hear the blackbird fing,
The robin-red-breaft and the thrush,
And nightingale in thorny bush,
The mavis fweetly carroling;
This to my love, this to my love,
Content will bring.
See where the nymph, with all her train,
Comes fkipping thro' the park amain,
And in this grove fhe means to stay,
At barley-breaks to fport and play;
Where we may fit us down and fee
Fair beauty mix'd, fair beauty mix'd
With chastity.
In yonder dale are finest flowers,
With mony pleasant fhady bowers,
A purling brook, whofe filver streams
Are beautified with Phebus' beams;
Which steal out thro' the trees for fear,
Because Diana, because Diana
All her delight is as ye fee,
This way to sport, and here to be
Delyting in this caler spring,
Only to bathe herself therein,
Until Acteon her espy'd ;
Then to the thicket, then to the thicket
And there by magic art the wrought,
And in her heart the thus bethought,
With fecret fpeed away to flee,
And he a hart was turn'd to be;
His thoughts on bonour always run,
He ne'er cou'd bow to love,
No nymph in all the land had charms
His frozen heart to move.
Amongst the nymphs where Kath'rine came,
The faireft face the fhows,
She was as bright as morning-fun,
And fweeter than a rofe:
Although the was of mean degree,
She daily conquefts gains;
For ne'er a youth who her beheld,
Efcap'd her powerful chains,
But foon her eyes their luftre loft,
Her cheek grew pale and wan,
A pining feiz'd her lovely form,
And cures were all in vain:
The ficknefs was to all unknown
That did the fair one wafte,
Her time in fighs and floods of tears,
And broken flumbers past.
Once in a dream fhe cry'd aloud,
Oh Henry, I'm undone!
Oh cruel fate! oh wretched maid!
Thy love muft ne'er be known!
Such is the fate of womankind,
They must the truth conceal,
I'll die ten thousand thousand deaths,
Ere I my love reveal.
A tender friend that watch'd the fair
To Henry hy'd away.
My Lord, fays fhe, we've found the cause
Of Kath'rine's quick decay :
She in a dream the fecret told,
Till now no mortal knew:
Alas! fhe now expiring lies,
And dies for love of you
The gen'rous Henry's foul was touch'd,
His heart began to flame,
Ah, poor unhappy maid! he cry'd,
Yet I am not to blame.
Ah Kathrine! too too modeft maid,
Thy love I never knew,
I'll eafe your pain and swift as wind
To her bedfide he flew.
Awake! awake! he fondly cry'd,
Awake! awake! my dear;
If I had only guess'd your love,
You ne'er had fhed a tear :
"Tis Henry calls, complain no more,
Renew thy wonted charms;
I come to fave thee from defpair,
And take thee to my arms.
Thefe words reviv'd the dying fair,
She rais'd her drooping head,
And gazing on the long-lov'd youth,
She started from the bed.
Around his neck her arms the flung,
In ecftafy, and cried,
Will you be kind? Will you
E nymphs and filvan gods,
That love green fields and woods,
When fpring newly born herfelf does adorn
With flowers and blooming bads:
Come fing in the praife, while flocks do graze
On yonder pleasant vale,
Of thofe that chofe to milk their ewes,
And in cold dews, with clouted shoes,
To carry the milking-pail.
You goddess of the morn,
With blufhes you adorn,
And take the fresh air, whilft linnets prepare
A confort on each green thorn:
'The blackbird and thrush, on every bush,
And the charming nightingale,
In merry vein, their throats do ftrain,
To entertain the jolly train
Of those of the milking-pail.
When cold bleak winds do roar,
And flowers will fpring no more,
The fields that were feen fo pleasant and green,
With winter's all candied o'er.
See how the town-lafs looks with her white face,
And her lips fo deadly pale?
But it is not fo with those that go
Thro' froft and fnow, with cheeks that glow,
And carry the milking-pail.
The mife of courtly mold,
Adorn'd with pearl and gold,
With washes and paint her skin does so taint,
She's wither'd before the's old :
While the of commode puts on a cart-load,
And, with cushions plumps her tail.
What joys are found in rufhy ground,
Young plump and round, nay, fweet and found,
Of thofe of the milking-pail.
You girls of Venus game,
That venture health and fame,
In practifing feats, with cold and heats,
Make lovers grow blind and lame :
If men were fo wife to value the prize
Of wares most fit for fale,
What ftore of beaux would daub their cloaths,
To fave a nofe, by following of thofe
Who carry the milking-pail?
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