Sweet Nelly, My Heart’s Delight

He. Sweet Nelly, my heart’s delight, Be loving, and do not slight The proffer I make For modesty’s sake. I honor your beauty bright; For love I profess, I can do no less. Thou hast my favor won. And since I see Your modesty, I pray you agree, And fancy me, Though I’m but a farmer’s son.

SHE. No; I am a lady gay; It is very well known I may Have men of renown In country or town. So, Roger, without delay Court Bridget, or Sue, Kate, Nancy, or Prue; Their loves will soon be won; But don’t you dare To speak me fair, As if I were At my last pray’r To marry a farmer’s son.

HE. My father has riches in store, Two hundred a year and more, Besides sheep and cows, Carts, harrows, and ploughs His age is above threescore, And when he does die, Then merrily I Shall have what he has won. Both land and kine, All shall be thine, If thou’lt incline, And will be mine, And marry a farmer’s son.

SHE. A fig for your cattle and corn! Your proffered love I scorn. ’Tis known very well My name it is Nell, And you’re but a bumpkin born.

HE. Well, since it is so, Away I will go, And I hope no harm is done. Farewell! adieu! I hope to woo As good as you, And win her too, Though I’m but a farmer’s son.

SHE. Be not in such haste, quoth she; Perhaps we may still agree, For, man, I protest I was but in jest; Come, prithee, sit down by me. For thou art the man That verily can Win me if e’er I’m won. Both straight and tall, Genteel withal, Therefore I shall Be at your call To marry a farmer’s son.

HE. Dear Nelly, believe me now, I solemnly swear and vow No lords in their lives Take pleasure in wives Like we that do drive the plough. Whatever we gain With labor or pain, We don’t after wantons run, As courtiers do. And I never knew A London beau That could outdo A country farmer’s son.