Though I am young, I scorn to flit On the wings of borrowed wit. - George Wither

I loved a lass, a fair one, As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one, Another Sheba queen:
But, fool as then I was, I thought she loved me too:
But now, alas! she's left me, Falero, lero, loo!

Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman’s fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care, ’Cause another’s rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be?

Jack shall pipe and Gill shall dance.