To the Willow-tree.

THou art to all lost love the best,
The onely true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distrest,
And left of love, are crown'd.

When once the Lovers Rose is dead,
Or laid aside forlorne;
Then Willow-garlands, 'bout the head,
Bedew'd with teares, are worne.

When with Neglect, (the Lovers bane)
Poore Maids rewarded be,
For their love lost; their onely gaine
Is but a Wreathe from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,
(When weary of the light)
The love-spent Youth, and love-sick Maid,
Come to weep out the night.