I wyll that my son manhede take For reson wyll that there be thre A man, a madyn, and a tre. Man for man, tre for tre, Madyn for madyn; thus shall it be.
Oh, is there not one maiden here Whose homely face and bad complexion Have caused all hopes to disappear Of ever winning man's affection?
With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For manya rose-lipt maiden And many a lightfoot lad.
Marrying left your maiden name disused.
That orbe' d maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the Moon.
I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed: Gods and men, we are all deluded thus! It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed.
Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Here's to the widow of fifty; Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean; And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. Chorus. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for a glass!
Maiden, and mistress of the months and stars Now folded in the flowerless fields of heaven.
And soft as lips that laugh and hide The laughing leaves of the tree divide, And screen from seeing and leave in sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid.
To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her; for indeed I knew Of no more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thought, and aimable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame, And love of truth, and all that makes man.
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