4
Which unsullied descended to me;
For my child I've preserv'd it, unblemish’d by shame
And it still from a spot shall be free.
MY FRIEND AND PITCHER.
The wealthy fool, with gold in store,
Will still desire to grow richer;
Give me but these, I ask no more,
My charming girl, my friend and pitcher,
My friend so rare my girl so fair,
With such what mortal can be richer;
Give me but these, a fig for care,
With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher.
From morning sun I'd never grieve,
To toil, a hedger or a ditcher,
If that when l come home at eve,
I might enjoy my friend and pitcher.
My friend so rare, &c.
Tho' fortune ever shuns my door,
I know not what can thus bewitch her.
With all my heart can I be poor,
With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher.
