My mother had a maid call’d Barbara: She was in love, and he she loved proved mad And did forsake her: she had a song of “willow;” An old thing ’twas, but it express’d her fortune, And she died singing it: that song to-night Will not go from my mind; I have much to do, But to go hang my head all at one side, And sing it like poor Barbara. Prithee, dispatch.

No, unpin me here. This Lodovico is a proper man.

Singing. The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing all a green willow: Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, Sing willow, willow, willow: The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur’d her moans; Sing willow, willow, willow; Her salt tears fell from her, and soften’d the stones;

Lay by these:⁠—