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The Song Book |
19 |
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Which way soe'er I go She still torments me,
And whatsoe'er I do Nothing contents me :
I fade, and pine away With grief and sorrow; |
I fall quite to decay, Like any shadow.
I shall be dead, I fear,
Within a thousand year ;
And all because my dear Phillida flouts me. |
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Chappell. From Watts' Musical Miscellany and Ritson's Ancient Songs.
XVII
/ LOTHE THAT I DID LOVE |
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For Age with stealing steps
Hath clawde me in his crowch ; And lusty Youthe awaye he leapes,
As there had been none such.
A pikeax and a spade (a spaoe)
And eke a shrowding shete, A home of clay for to be made
For such a guest most mete.
Chappell. Words from Percy's Reliques. Tune. Now ponder well.
c 2 |
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