THE

poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing all a green willow;

Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,

Sing willow, willow, willow.

The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans;

Sing willow, willow, willow;

Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones;

Sing willow, willow, willow:

Sing all a green willow must be my garland.

Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry.

TIR'D with all these, for restful death I cry,—
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,

And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,

And captive good attending captain ill;

Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone,

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

JOG on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the stile-a : A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a.