English poem
The poor Soul sat singing by a…
by Anonymous
The poor Soul sat singing by a Sycamore-tree, Her Hand on her Bosom, her Head on her Knee, The fresh Streams ran by her, and murmur'd her Moans, Her salt Tears fell from her, and soften'd the Stones: Sing all a green Willow must be my Garland, Let nobody blame him, his Scorn I upprove. I call'd my Love false Love, but what said he then? If I can't more Women you'll think of more Men.