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I had store of money there,

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'Stay, George," quoth she, "thou art too quick:

Why, man, I did but jeer.

"Dost think for all my speech,

That I would let thee go?

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Faith no," said she, "my love to thee
I-wiss is more than so."

"You scorne a prentice boy,

Wherefore I will not trouble you."

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I heard you just now swear:

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Nay, George, hark in thine ear;

“Thou shalt not go to-night,

What chance soe're befall;

But man, we'll have a bed for thee,
Or else the devil take all."

So I by wiles bewitcht,

And snar'd with fancy still,

Had then no power to 'get' away,

Or to withstand her will.

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I'll rob her ere I'll want."

"Nay, then," quoth Sarah, "they may well

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Consider of your scant."

'Nay, I an uncle have;

At Ludlow he doth dwell;

He is a grazier, which in wealth
Doth all the rest excell.

"Ere I will live in lack,

And have no coyn for thee,

I'll rob his house, and murder him."

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Why should you not?" quoth she:

"Was I a man, ere I

Would live in poor estate,

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On father, friends, and all my kin
I would my talons grate.

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"For without money, George,
A man is but a beast:

But bringing money, thou shalt be
Always my welcome guest.

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i. e. for stopping, and apprehending him at his father's.

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Whereby she seized was,

And then to Ludlow sent,.

Where she was judg'd, condemn'd, and hang'd,

For murder incontinent.

VOL. II.

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These beautiful stanzas were written by George Wither, of whom some account was given in the First Volume: see the song entitled, The Shepherd's Resolution, book v. song xxi. In the first edition of this work, only a small fragment of this sonnet was inserted. It was afterwards rendered more complete and entire by the addition of five stanzas more, extracted from Wither's pastoral poem, entitled, The Mistress of Philarete, of which this song makes a part. It is now given still more correct and perfect by comparing it with another copy, printed by the author in his improved edition of The Shepherd's Hunting, 1620, 8vo.

HENCE away, thou Syren, leave me!
Pish! unclaspe these wanton armes ;
Sugred words can ne'er deceive me,
(Though they prove a thousand charmes).
Fie, fie, forbeare;

No common snare

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