What then is love, sings Coridon,
Since Phillida is grown so coy?
A flattering glass to gaze upon,
A busy jest, a serious toy;
A flower still budding, never blown,
A scanty dearth in fullest store,
Yielding least fruit where most is sown.
My daily note shall be, therefore:
Heigh ho, heigh ho, chill love no more,
Heigh ho, heigh ho, chill love no more.

’Tis like a morning dewy rose
Spread fairly to the sun’s arise,
But when his beams he doth disclose,
That which then flourished quickly dies.
It is a self-fed, dying hope,
A promised bliss, a salveless sore,
An aimless mark, an erring scope.
My daily note shall be, therefore:
Heigh ho, heigh ho, chill love no more,
Heigh ho, heigh ho, chill love no more.

’Tis like a lamp shining to all,
Whilst in itself it doth decay;
It seems to free whom it doth thrall,
And leads our pathless thoughts astray.
It is the spring of wintered hearts,
Parched by the summer’s heat before;
Faint hope to kindly warmth converts.
My daily note shall be, therefore:
Heigh ho, heigh ho, chill love no more,
Heigh ho, heigh ho, chill love no more.

I cannot eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I nothing am a-cold;
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;
A little bread shall do me stead;
Much bread I not desire.
No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,
Can hurt me if I wold;
I am so wrapp'd and thoroughly lapp'd
Of jolly good ale and old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek:
Then doth she trowl to me the bowl
Even as a maltworm should,
And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old.'
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have that bliss
Good ale doth bring men to;
And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls
Or have them lustily troll'd,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.
Back and side go bare, go bare;
Both foot and hand go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.