William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
Phillada Flouts MeAnonymous
O
How shall I bear it?
She will inconstant prove,
I greatly fear it.
She so torments my mind
That my strength faileth,
And wavers with the wind
As a ship saileth.
Please her the best I may,
She loves still to gainsay;
Alack and well-a-day!
Phillada flouts me.
She did pass by me;
She look’d another way
And would not spy me:
I woo’d her for to dine,
But could not get her;
Will had her to the Vine—
He might entreat her.
With Daniel she did dance,
On me she look’d askance:
O thrice unhappy chance!
Phillada flouts me.
Do not disdain me!
I am my mother’s joy:
Sweet, entertain me!
She’ll give me, when she dies,
All that is fitting:
Her poultry and her bees,
And her geese sitting,
A pair of mattrass beds,
And a bag full of shreds;
And yet, for all this guedes,
Phillada flouts me!
Wrought with blue coventry,
Which she keeps for a sign
Of my fidelity:
But i’ faith, if she flinch
She shall not wear it;
To Tib, my t’other wench,
I mean to bear it.
And yet it grieves my heart
So soon from her to part:
Death strike me with his dart!
Phillada flouts me.
All the year lasting,
And drink the crystal stream
Pleasant in tasting;
Whig and whey whilst thou lust,
And ramble-berries,
Pie-lid and pastry-crust,
Pears, plums, and cherries.
Thy raiment shall be thin,
Made of a weaver’s skin—
Yet all’s not worth a pin!
Phillada flouts me.
I made her posies;
I heard her often say
That she loved roses.
Cowslips and gillyflowers
And the white lily
I brought to deck the bowers
For my sweet Philly.
But she did all disdain,
And threw them back again
Therefore ’tis flat and plain
Phillada flouts me.
And in time take me;
I can have those as fair
If you forsake me:
For Doll the dairy-maid
Laugh’d at me lately,
And wanton Winifred
Favours me greatly.
One throws milk on my clothes,
T’other plays with my nose;
What wanting signs are those?
Phillada flouts me.
At all in season:
Love wounds my heart so deep
Without all reason.
I ’gin to pine away
With grief and sorrow,
Like as a fat beast may,
Penn’d in a meadow.
I shall be dead, I fear,
Within this thousand year:
And all for that my dear
Phillada flouts me.