Many a time thou must have noticed⁠— If to notice thou dost care⁠— How I go about on Monday Dressed in all my Sunday wear.

Love’s eyes love to look on brightness; Love loves what is gaily drest; Sunday, Monday, all I care is Thou shouldst see me in my best.

No account I make of dances, Or of strains that pleased thee so, Keeping thee awake from midnight Till the cocks began to crow;

Or of how I roundly swore it That there’s none so fair as thou; True it is, but as I said it, By the girls I’m hated now.

For Teresa of the hillside At my praise of thee was sore; Said, “You think you love an angel; It’s a monkey you adore;