SaturdayFeb 01, 2025
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
When Arthur first in court began, And was approved king.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more! Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never.
A poore soule sat sighing under a sycamore tree; Oh willow, willow, willow! With his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee, Oh willow, willow, willow!
A Robyn, Jolly Robyn, Tell me how thy leman does.
And how should I know your true love From many another one? Oh, by his cockle hat and staff, And by his sandal shoone.
And when with envy Time, transported, Shall think to rob us of our joys, You 'll in your girls again be courted, And I 'll go wooing in my boys.
But in vayne shee did conjure him To depart her presence soe; Having a thousand tongues to allure him, And but one to bid him goe.
Every white will have its blacke, And every sweet its soure.
Have you not heard these many years ago Jeptha was judge of Israel? He had one only daughter and no mo, The which he loved passing well; And as by lott, God wot, It so came to pass, As God's will was.
He that had neyther been kith nor kin Might have seen a full fayre sight.
He that would not when he might, He shall not when he wolda.
I saw the new moon late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm.
King Stephen was a worthy peere, His breeches cost him but a croune; He held them sixpence all too deere, Therefore he call'd the taylor loune. He was a wight of high renowne, And those but of a low degree; Itt 's pride that putts the countrye doune, Then take thine old cloake about thee.
Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone, Wi' the auld moon in hir arme.
O Lady, he is dead and gone! Lady, he 's dead and gone! And at his head a green grass turfe, And at his heels a stone.
Shall I bid her goe? What if I doe? Shall I bid her goe and spare not? Oh no, no, no! I dare not.
The blinded boy that shootes so trim, From heaven downe did hie.
We 'll shine in more substantial honours, And to be noble we 'll be good.
Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrowe is in vaine; For violets pluckt, the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow againe.
'What is thy name, faire maid?' quoth he. 'Penelophon, O King!' quoth she.
Where gripinge grefes the hart wounde, And dolefulle dumps the mynde oppresse, There music with her silver sound With spede is wont to send redresse.
Terms of use and copyrights
