thing, and we wil think our selves stil
something in your debt; it is but to sing us a Song, that that was sung
by you and your daughter, when I last past over this Meadow, about
eight or nine dayes since.

_Milk._ what Song was it, I pray? was it, _Come Shepherds deck your
heads_: or, _As at noon _Dulcina_ rested_: or _Philida flouts me_?

_Pisc._ No, it is none of those: it is a Song that your daughter sung
the first part, and you sung the answer to it.

_Milk._ O I know it now, I learn'd the first part in my golden age,
when I was about the age of my daughter; and the later part, which
indeed fits me best, but two or three years ago; you shal, God willing,
hear them both. Come _Maudlin_, sing the first part to the Gentlemen
with a merrie heart, and Ile sing the second.

The Milk maids Song.

Come live with me, and be my Love,
And we wil all the pleasures prove
That vallies, Groves, or hils, or fields,
Or woods and steepie mountains yeelds.

Where we will sit upon the _Rocks_,
And see the Shepherds feed our _flocks_,
By shallow _Rivers_, to whose falls
Mellodious birds sing _madrigals_.

And I wil make thee beds of _Roses_,
And then a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a Kirtle,
Imbroidered all with leaves of Mirtle.

A Gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull,
Slippers lin'd choicely for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivie buds,
With Coral clasps, and Amber studs
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my Love.

The Shepherds Swains shal dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my Love.

_Via._ Trust me Master, it is a choice Song, and sweetly sung by honest
_Maudlin_: Ile bestow Sir _Thomas Overbury's_ Milk maids wish upon her,
_That she may dye in the Spring, and have good store of flowers stuck
round about her winding sheet_.

The Milk maids mothers answer.

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherds tongue?
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee, and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold:
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And _Philomel_ becometh dumb,
The Rest complains of cares to come.

The Flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yeilds
A honey tongue