The Poetry of George Wither

Withers.

'Cause her fortunes seem too high,

Should I play the fool and die?
He that bears a noble mind

If not outward help he find,

Think what with them he would do
That without them dares to woo.

And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Johnson.

'Cause her fortunes seem too low,
Shall I therefore let her go?
He that bears an humble mind,
And with riches can be kind,

Think how kind a heart he'd have

If he were some servile slave.

And if that same mind I see,
What care I how poor she be?

Withers.

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, then believe
I will die, ere she shall grieve.

If she slight me when I woo,
I can slight and bid her go:

If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be?

Johnson.

Poor, or bad, or curst, or black,
I will ne'er the more be slack,
If she hate me, then believe,
She shall die ere I will grieve:

If she like me when I woo,
I can like and love her too:
If that she be fit for me,
What care I what others be?

A LOVE SONNET.

I LOVED a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba queen.
But fool as then I was,

I thought she loved me too;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Her hair like gold did glister,
Each eye was like a star;
She did surpass her sister,
Which passed all others far.
She would me honey call;

She'd, O she'd kiss me too;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Like doves we would be billing,

And clip and kiss so fast; Yet she would be unwilling

That I should kiss the last. They're Judas-kisses now,

Since that they proved untrue; For now, alas! sh' 'as left me, Falero, lero, loo.

To maidens' vows and swearing
Henceforth no credit give;
You may give them the hearing,
But never them believe.
They are as false as fair,

Unconstant, frail, untrue;

For mine, alas! has left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

'Twas I that paid for all things,

'Twas others drank the wine;

I cannot now recall things,
Live but a fool to pine.
'Twas I that beat the bush,

The bird to others flew ;
For she, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Böcker