Ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes

Ye bubbling springs that gentle music makes

To lovers' plaints with heart-sore throbs immixed,

When as my dear this way her pleasure takes,

Tell her with tears how firm my love is fixed;

And, Philomel, report my timerous fears,

And, echo, sound my heigh-ho's in her ears:

But if she asks if I for love will die,

Tell her, Good faith, good faith, good faith, — not I.