274   To Anthea, who may command him Anything

BID me to live, and I will live
   Thy Protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
   A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
   A heart as sound and free
As in the whole world thou canst find,
   That heart I’ll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay
   To honour thy decree:
Or bid it languish quite away,
   And’t shall do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep
   While I have eyes to see:
And, having none, yet will I keep
   A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I’ll despair
   Under that cypress-tree:
Or bid me die, and I will dare
   E’en death to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
   The very eyes of me:
And hast command of every part
   To live and die for thee.

275   To the Willow-tree

THOU art to all lost love the best,
   The only true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distrest,
   And left of love, are crown’d.

When once the lover’s rose is dead,
   Or laid aside forlorn:
Then willow-garlands ’bout the head
   Bedew’d with tears are worn.

When with neglect, the lovers’ bane,
   Poor maids rewarded be
For their love lost, their only gain
   Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,
   When weary of the light,
The love-spent youth and love- sick maid
   Come to weep out the night.

276   The Mad Maid’s Song

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 well-a-day!
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 they’ve 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!