The mad Maids song.

GOod morrow to the Day so fair;
Good morning Sir to you:
Good morrow to mine own torn hair
Bedabled with the dew.

Good morning to this Prim-rose too;
Good morrow to each maid;
That will with flowers the Tomb bestrew,
Wherein my Love is laid.

Ah! woe woe woe woe woe is me,
Alack and welladay!
For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee,
Which bore my Love away.

I'le seek him in your Bonnet brave;
Ile seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think th'ave made his grave
I'th'bed of strawburies.

Ile seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold Earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kisse
By you, Sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knowes well who do love him,
And who with green-turfes reare his head,
And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender (Pray take heed)
With bands of Cow-slips bind him;
And bring him home, but 'tis decreed,
That I shall never find him.