'Cause her fortune seems too high, Thinks what with them he would do Great or good, or kind or fair, 20 If she love me, this believe, 35 I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo, What care I for whom she be? XLVIII. 40 G. Wither. MELANCHOLY. HENCE, all you vain delights, Wherein you spend your folly : O sweetest Melancholy! Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes, CXXXII. 5 Are warmly housed save bats and owls! 15 Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley; J. Fletcher. XLIX. THE FORSAKEN BRIDE. O WALY waly up the bank, And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon burn-side Where I and my Love wont to gae! I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, O waly waly, but love be bonny CXXXIII. 5 10 My Love was clad in black velvét, But had 1 wist, before I kist, That love had been sae ill to win; I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd And set upon the nurse's knee, And I mysell were dead and gane, And the green grass growing over me! 35 40 |