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.