How Should I Your True Love Know
How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf;
At his heels a stone.
White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with ’sweet flower;
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.
To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine:
Then up he rose, and donn’d his clothes,
And dupp’d the chamber door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fie for shame!
Young men will do’t, if they come to’t;
By Cock they are to blame.
Quoth she, before you tumbled me,
You promis’d me to wed:
So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to my bed.
They bore him barefac’d on the bier;
Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny;
And in his grave rain’d many a tear;--
You must sing,
A-down a-down, And you call him a-down-a.
O how the wheel becomes it!
It is the false steward that stole his master’s daughter.
Words By William Shakespeare
How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf;
At his heels a stone.
White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Larded with ’sweet flower;
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers.
To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine:
Then up he rose, and donn’d his clothes,
And dupp’d the chamber door;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.
By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fie for shame!
Young men will do’t, if they come to’t;
By Cock they are to blame.
Quoth she, before you tumbled me,
You promis’d me to wed:
So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to my bed.
They bore him barefac’d on the bier;
Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny;
And in his grave rain’d many a tear;--
You must sing,
A-down a-down, And you call him a-down-a.
O how the wheel becomes it!
It is the false steward that stole his master’s daughter.
Words By William Shakespeare