Goe, and catche a falling starre
Get with child a mandrake roote
Tell me, where all past yeares are
Or who cleft the Divels foot
Teach me to heare Mermaides singing
Or to keep off envies stinging
And finde
What winde
Serves to advance an honest minde

If thou beest borne to strange sights
Things invisible to see
Ride ten thousand daies and nights
Till age snow white haires on thee
Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell mee
All strange wonders that befell thee
And sweare
No where
Lives a woman true, and faire

If thou findst one, let mee know
Such a Pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet doe not, I would not goe
Though at next doore wee might meet
Though shee were true, when you met her
And last, till you write your letter
Yet shee
Will bee
False, ere I come, to two, or three