University of Virginia Library

A BALLADE.

The maid who pants for lover's sighs,
Doth lay for her own peace a snare;
She rues the conquests of her eyes,
And mourns that she was ever fair:
Then, lasses, mind the proverb well,
‘Too oft the pitcher went to well.’

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Where Beauty doth display its rose,
In tribes the busy swains are found;
And where the richest nect'rine grows,
The hungry flies will buzz around:
Then, lasses, mind the proverb well,
‘Too oft the pitcher went to well.’