  Good-morrow to the day so fair, Good-morrow, sir, to you; Good-morrow to my own torn hair, Bedabbled all with dew. Good-morrow 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 In the 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 so 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. |
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