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 To hear you moan, love, I cannot bear, nor cure you of your disease, But I’ll be sure to return back again, When all friends will be pleas’d.

I suppose your friends will never be pleas'd, They are grown so lofty and high, Yet I’ll never prove false to the girl I love, Till the stars fall from the sky.

Suppose the stars never fall from the sky, And the rocks never melt with the sun, Yet I ne’er will prove false to the girl I love, Till all these things are done.

Suppose these things should never be done, While you and I do live, Yet I’ll ne’er-prove false to the girl I love, Till we both go to one grave.

O don’t you see yon little turtle-dove, That sits on yonder tree, Making a lament for its true-love; And so will I for thee, my dear; And so will I for thee.

So now we must part, my dearest love, Perhaps to meet no more; I hope you’ll mind your promise to me, Till you return on shore, Till you return on shore.