The Pipkin

O silly pipkin! storming so
With such a little fire below;
O silly love! that burns and burns,
And all my senses overturns.

It is not hard a fish to snare,
But of the fish's bones take care;
Not hard with her you love to be,
But O! the parting misery!

The sun, the rain, the wind combine
To ripen grape-fruits on the vine;
And in due time those fruits are press'd,
And maidens for the altar dress'd.

What! would they hide me from my love,
Mine own, mine own, my favorite dove?
They called me weak—they did me wrong;
They called me weak—but I am strong.

I would not on the ridge be thrown,
I would not by the scythe be mown;
My right-hand lost, O! who would knead
For thee the white, the wheaten bread?