Friend and Pitcher

The wealthy fool, with gold in store, Will still desire to grow richer, Give me but health, I ask no more, My charming girl, my friend and pitcher, My friend so rare, my girl so fair, With such, what mortal can be richer; Give me but these, a fig for care, With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher.

From morning sun I'd never grieve, To toil a hedger or a ditcher, If that, when I came home at eve, I might enjoy my friend and pitcher. My friend so rare, &c. Tho' fortune ever shuns my door, I know not what can thus bewitch her; With all my heart can I be poor, With my sweet girl, my friend and pitcher. My friend so rare, &c.