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Love he that will, it best likes me To have my neck from love's yoke free.

Good-morrow to the day so fair, Good-morning, sir, to you; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morning 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 th'ave made his grave I' th' 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.