SONG.

THOUGH hearts may ache, they rarely break;

Cheer up, thou doleful lover!

Love is an ill doth seldom kill;

Full soon wilt thou recover.

Blue eyes, be sure, are made to cure

The wounds that black eyes deal us;

When pink and white hath wrought our plight,

"The nut-brown maid" will heal us.

Thy sighs suppress; amend thy dress;

Once more be up and doing;

A first mischance doth but enhance

The bliss of second wooing.