Isaac Bickerstaffe


How happy were my days, till now
	I ne’er did sorrow feel;
I rose with joy to milk my cow,
	Or take my spinning weel.

My heart was lighter than a fly,
	Like any bird I sung, 
Till he pretended love, and I
	Believ’d his flatt’ring tongue.

Oh the fool, the silly, silly fool,
	Who trusts what man may be; 
I wish I was a maid again,
	And in my own country.

Love in a Village, Act i, 1762

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