Ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes

Ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes
To lovers' plaints with heart-sore throbs immixed,
When as my dear this way her pleasure takes,
Tell her with tears how firm my love is fixed;
And, Philomel, report my timerous fears,
And, echo, sound my heigh-ho's in her ears:
But if she asks if I for love will die,
Tell her, Good faith, good faith, good faith,—not I.